What Death doth take for wife is

What life has of good and of fair;

        The pain of passing's knife is

Not the less that it is everywhere;

        All goes, all flows, all life is

But the wreck of its own self for e'er.

        Yet hope we that this going

A semblance and lie can but be;

        That the river that is flowing

Will find, how far be it, a sea;

        That beyond our frail knowing

A deeper life eternally

Keeps all that seems to wither

All that seems to go wits to-day,

        And that in a way to bother [?]

Our subtlest thoughts to dismay

        Form and matter together

Live e'er in a timeless Alway.