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 warm conscious flesh shall perish quite,

and all life’s ruddy springs forget to flow;

that thoughts shall cease, and the immortal sprite

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 past-away, there may be then

no resurrection in the minds of men.