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DEATH

It is not death, that sometime in a sigh

This eloquent breath shall take its speechless flight;

That sometime these bright stars, that now reply

In sunlight to the sun, shall set in night;

That this warm conscious flesh shall perish quite,

And all life’s ruddy springs forget to flow;

That thoughts shall cease, and the immortal spright

Be lapp’d in alien clay and laid below;

It is not death to know this,—but to know

That pious thoughts, which visit at new graves

In tender pilgrimage, will cease to go

So duly and so oft—and when grass waves

Over the passed-away, there may be then

No resurrection in the minds of men.

Thomas Hood.

A little pain, a little fond regret,

A little shame, and we are living yet,

While love, that should outlive us, lieth dead.

W. Morris.

O never rudely will I blame his faith

In the might of stars and angels!...

... For the stricken heart of Love

This visible nature, and this common world,

Is all too narrow: yea, a deeper import

Lurks in the legend told my infant years