Death
It is not death, that sometime in a sighThis eloquent breath shall take its speechless flight;That sometime these bright stars, that now replyIn 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 spriteBe lapped in alien clay and laid below;It is not death to know this,--but to knowThat pious thoughts, which visit at new gravesIn tender pilgrimage, will cease to goSo duly and so oft,--and when grass wavesOver the past-away, there may be thenNo resurrection in the minds of men.
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