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

Father! - to God himself we cannot give a holier name.

A simple child. That lightly draws its breath. And feels its life in every limb. What should it know of death?

Spade! Thou art a tool of honor in my hands. I press thee, through a yielding soil, with pride.

Death is the quiet haven of us all.

"One impulse from a vernal wood

The clouds that gather round the setting sun do take a sober colouring from an eye that hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, to me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.