That grim spectre who
Is always there confronted him
And left him rumpled on the floor,
To wake with music from this world:
The funeral goes past his house, as
Seneca observed, but it is not
For him that God sends summons, he has
Much to do, plans to complete before
         He meets the appointed day.

         Who are the people,
What are the blessings difficult
To leave? Loved ones, family, friends...
But all joys no more to hear
Music, the great gift – or harmonies
In nature – is beyond conjecture:
Or the answer lies in measures that
Restore the dear sounds he reveres!
         Ah well, celestial choirs!