O' take me off the deathly scribe! For now;
My heart does bid his bones to draw me not.
For mine new love could not neath stone, allow.
Yet pure to still relive past breath, than rot.
No grimmer fate than crawling dirt to sire
As meant for fair and sweet, not feast to dust.
Tho' laws of ashes still bids me to mire
Extend this time, then I will sleep that crust.
To reap one's source, then must have inner sight!
Then known this pith of mine; which rules my core,
Recall then death to when you lived such light
Then sure as all who lay; you'll wave me more!

O' rid me not to soil when love's too soon
May scythe withhold for love, and then let hewn.