What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls a butterfly.

What then remains, but that we still should cry Not to be born, or being born to die.

Her cabin'd ample spirit, It fluttered and fail'd for breath; Tonight it doth inherit The vasty hall of death.

Spare me the whispering, crowded room, the friends who come and gape and go, the ceremonious air of gloom - all, which makes death a hideous show.

He who died at Azan sends This to comfort all this friends: Faithful friends! It lies I know Pale and white and cold as snow; And ye say, "Abdallah's dead!" Weeping at the feet and head. I can see your falling tears, I can hear your sighs and prayers; Yet I smile and whisper this: I am not the thing you kiss. Cease your tears and let it lie; It was mine--it is not I.

I must not say that she was true, Yet let me say that she was fair; And they, that lovely face who view, They should not ask if truth be there.