From Eduard Morike's "Prague""

 

In the woods, who knows where, Stands a green fir-tree; 

A rosebush, who can tell, Blooms in what garden? 

Already they have been chosen – Oh soul, remember! – 

To take root on your grave, For they must grow there. 

Out on the meadow two Black steeds are grazing, 

And homewards to the town They trot so sprightly. 

They will be walking when They draw your coffin; 

Who knows but that may be Even before they shed 

That iron on their hooves That glints so brightly.