MARK you not yon sad procession; <br />'Mid the ruin'd abbey's gloom, <br />Hastening to the worm's possession, <br />To the dark and silent tomb! <br /> <br />See the velvet pall hangs over <br />Poor mortality's remains; <br />We should shudder to discover <br />What that coffin's space contains. <br /> <br />Death itself is lovely—wearing <br />But the colder shape of sleep; <br />Or the solemn statue bearing <br />Beauty that forbids to weep. <br /> <br />But decay—the pulses tremble <br />When its livid signs appear; <br />When the once-loved lips resemble <br />All we loathe, and all we fear. <br /> <br />Is it not a ghastly ending <br />For the body's godlike form, <br />Thus to the damp earth descending, <br />Food and triumph to the worm? <br /> <br />Better far the red pile blazing <br />With the spicy Indian wood, <br />Incense unto heaven raising <br />From the sandal oil's sweet flood. <br /> <br />In the bright pyre's kindling flashes, <br />Let my yielded soul ascend; <br />Fling to the wild winds my ashes <br />'Till with mother-earth they blend. <br /> <br />Not so,—let the pale urn keep them; <br />Touch'd with spices, oil, and wine; <br />Let there be some one to weep them; <br />Wilt thou keep that urn? Love mine!<br /><br />Letitia Elizabeth Landon<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-funeral-23/
