Why should their foolish bands, their hopeless hearses

Blot the perpetual festival of day?

Ravens, for prosperously-boded curses

Returning thanks, might offer such array.

Heaven comfort sends, but harry it away,

Gather the sooty plumage from Death's wings

And the poor corse impale with it and fray

Far from its head an angel's hoverings,

And count the rosy cross with bann'd disastrous things.

• Gerard Manley Hopkins