Come, thrust your hands in the warm earth 
And feel her strength through all your veins; 
Breathe her full odors, taste her mouth, 
Which laughs away imagined pains; 
Touch her life's womb, yet know 
This substance makes your grave also.

Shrink not; your flesh is no more sweet 
Than flowers which daily blow and die; 
Nor are your mein and dress so neat, 
Nor half so pure your lucid eye; 
And, yet, by flowers and earth I swear 
You're neat and pure and sweet and fair.