From dust to dust. From clay to clay we live.
While living: may our souls find ought to give
To God and one another. Lest we find
Our time has gone: like water through the sieve.
So when I die: plant over me the rose
Whose scented blossoms delight my repose.
And let my mortal clay nourish the ground
While scented thorns my flesh to blooms transpose.
What though Death’s angel greet you in the morn
And ask you kindly sip the mead-filled horn
To pass from earth into eternal paths
Destined for us before we each were born?