Won’t there be thy luggage
Full of goods to carry
As the time goes and strikes the age;
Life is precarious and airy.
Shan’t thy heart need a beautiful thing as music
And shan’t it always demand thy fate
When thy fate make you to deathbed sick
And thy imaginations won’t beget
To let you reckon thy days.
Won’t there be venue making distant symphony
And stars tinged with blushing face,
And there shall a life never perhaps be
And neither perhaps beautiful dress;
We shall be taken over by death at any rate
For who shall know whether or not life again beget.