Death snatched you away before your day and took you to Lethe's shore,
You could beat old Parr, but Methuselah might give you a month or more.
What a voice to be dumb — it could overcome the market's or schoolroom's clatter,
A revivalist hymn, or the river's brim with a million cranes a-chatter.
There was none like you foul tricks to do, as a witch you have left no double:
Be your covering slight and of sand so light that the dogs may have little trouble.