Death is the quiet haven of us all.
Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound.
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar.
Great God! I'd rather be a Pagan.
A brotherhood of venerable trees.
Let the moon shine on the in thy solitary walk; and let the misty mountain-winds be free to blow against thee.