Look thy last on all things lovely, Every hour-let no night Seal thy sense in deathly slumber Till to delight Thou hast paid thy utmost blessing.

But beauty vanishes; beauty passes; However rare-rare it be; And when I crumble, who will remember This lady of the West Country?

'Who knocks?' 'I, who was beautiful, Beyond all dreams to restore, I from the roots of the dark thorn am hither, And knock on the door.'

Here lies a most beautiful lady, Light of step and heart was she; I think she was the most beautiful lady That ever was in the West Country.