The Grave Yard

My heart grows sick before the wide-spread death, That walks and speaks in seeming life around; And I would love the corse without a breath, That sleeps forgotten 'neath the cold, cold ground; For these do tell the story of decay, The worm and rotten flesh hide not nor lie; But this, though dying too from day to day, With a false show doth cheat the longing eye; And hide the worm that gnaws the core of life, With painted cheek and smooth deceitful skin; Covering a grave with sights of darkness rife, A secret cavern filled with death and sin; And men walk o'er these graves and know it not, For in the body's health the soul's forgot.