Death is the quiet haven of us all.

One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave.

When his veering gait And every motion of his starry train Seem governed by a strain Of music, audible to him alone.

Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.

Knowing that Nature never did betray the heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege, through all the years of this our life, to lead from joy to joy.

Two voices are there; one is of the sea, One of the mountains: each a mighty Voice.

In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat And birds and flowers once more to greet. . . .