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.