A dead corpse crowned with a crown of gold Sits thron’d beneath the sky’s gigantic pall; Gold garments from its rotted shoulders fall, And regal purple robes funereal.
Before its face a vast processional Goes by with offerings for its great knees cold; Its soft hand doth a golden sceptre hold; And in its flesh lie sleeping worms uproll’d.
They that pass ceaseless by see not at all; They know not that beneath its garments’ fold Is but a corpse, rotted, and dead, and tall.
He is accurst that sees it dead and old; He is accurst that sees: the white worms call For him: for him have funeral dirges toll’d.