Song #4. Poem by Robert Crawford

They have been here and had this light
Who in their graves are lying,
And e'en the youngest life to-night
Is gradually dying.
Our birth's a kind of death we have
When we upon time waken,
A step still nearer to the grave
With every breath is taken.
We are doomed being born, as 'twere
Decay within us breeding,
Or e'en as time did groan and bear
But death's immortal seeding;
For we are made of stuff that goes
So easy to decaying,
'Tis at the best the spirit's clothes
In which it goes a-Maying.