Stream of time, though invisible, untouchable,
Bears power of most destructive kind.
That's why I'm happy your death
Was so untimely, unreasonable.
So your immortal beauty same remains in mind.

The Glass in your bedroom was a ticking clock,
In mornings you looked at, with sad eyes;
Always worrying some day old aged
Face they'd see and mock;
That some day your grace will no more mesmerize.

Now that your rotting skin by no eye is found,
Are not you happy you are underground?