I shall seeThe hour of death draw near to me,Hope, blossoming within my heart. . . .

And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief.

Remorse is virtue's root; its fair increase is fruits of innocence and blessedness.

Poetry is the eloquence of verse.

Flowers spring up unsown and die ungathered.

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods and meadows brown and sear.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join, The innumerable caravan which moves, To that mysterious realm where each shall take, His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged by his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed, By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch, About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.