How fares it with the happy dead?

Love will conquer at the last.

Her court was pure, her life serene; God gave her peace; her land reposed; A thousand claims to reverence closed.

For this is England's greatest son, He that gain'd a hundred fights, And never lost an English gun.

Let me go: take back thy gift: Why should a man desire in any way To vary from the kindly race of men, Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance Where all should pause, as is most meet for all? ...Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy tears, And make me tremble lest a saying learnt, In days far-off, on that dark earth, be true? ‘The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts.’ - Tithonus

Nothing in Nature is unbeautiful.

The dream Dreamed by a happy man, when the dark East, Unseen, is brightening to his bridal morn.