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Inscribed in black ink upper right: "11"; on verso in black ink upper left: "12."; in gray ink center: "To M.rs Ann Flaxman | A little Flower grew in a lonely Vale | Its form was lovely. but its colours pale | One standing in Porches of the Sun | When his Meridian Glories were begun | Leapd from the steps of fire & on the grass | Alighted where this little flower was | With hands divine he movd the gentle Sod | And took the Flower up in its native Clod | Then planting it upon a Mountains brow | 'Tis your own fault if you dont flourish now | (underlined) William Blake"

Lettered on inlaid page: "COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. 157 | The EPITAPH. | HERE rests his head upon the lap of Earth | A Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown: | Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, | And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. | Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, | Heav'n did a recompence as largely send: | He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear, | He gain'd from Heav'n, 'twas all he wish'd, a | Friend. | No farther seek his merits to disclose, | Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, | (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) | The bosom of his Father and his God. | L2 NOTES.";