My heart grows sick before the wide-spread death, br That walks and speaks in seeming life around; br And I would love the corse without a breath, br That sleeps forgotten 'neath the cold, cold ground; br For these do tell the story of decay, br The worm and rotten flesh hide not nor lie; br But this, though dying too from day to day, br With a false show doth cheat the longing eye; br And hide the worm that gnaws the core of life, br With painted cheek and smooth deceitful skin; br Covering a grave with sights of darkness rife, br A secret cavern filled with death and sin; br And men walk o'er these graves and know it not, br For in the body's health the soul's forgot.