EPITAPH OF A POET

      Remember you that what is here interred,
Are but my earthly clay and deceased sinew:
From dust to dust they hath returneth,
Given to array soul in some coarse body, and burneth
Away at the call of Death. All is offered
His rite of passage when no worldly date
Would be asked him, soul in its proper garment
     Journeys home freed from temporal encasement
     All efforts are vain for whomever that exhumes
My remains in thoughts to harm a silent foe-glooms
Are no close associates to souls, but courage and truth
Therefore, my beloved, do not mourn nor lament for me
Death is but a faithful summoner, and like shadows and soth
    Trails all at all-times and even thee.