She clasps her hands against her breast,

All done up in her Sunday best,

A perfect figure, lying there

Upon a cloud of raven hair.

Adorned with ribbons and with lace,

A laurel wreath to frame her face,

Her arms with opalescent skin

Are folded 'round her violin.

Impeccable from head to feet

She rests beneath the ghostly sheet,

And in her coffin neatly laid

With flowers tastefully arrayed.