The Grave

Before thou wast born, there was built thee a house;
For thee was a mould meant ere thy mother bore thee;
They have not made it ready nor reckoned its depth;
No one has yet learned how long it shall be.
I point out thy path to the place thou shalt be;
Now I shall measure thee, and the mould afterwards.
Thy house is not highly timbered.
It is unhigh and low; when thou lyest therein,
The bottom and side boards shall bind thee near:
Close above thy breast is builded the roof.
Thou shalt dwell full cold in the clammy earth.
Full dim and dismal that den is to live in.
Doorless is that house, and is dark within;
Down art thou held there and death hath the key.
Loathly is that house of earth and horrid to live in.
There thou shalt tarry and be torn by worms.
Thus thou art laid, and leavest thy friends;
Thou hast never a comrade who will come to thee,
Who will hasten to look how thou likest thy house.
Or ever will undo thy door for thee.
. . . . . . . . and after thee descend;
For soon thou art loathsome and unlovely to see:
From the crown of thy head shall the hair be lost;
Thy locks shall fall and lose their freshness;
No longer is it fair for the fingers to stroke.