William cullen bryant

To him who in the love of Nature holdsCommunion with her visible forms, she speaksA various language.

The praise of those who sleep in earth,The pleasant memory of their worth,The hope to meet when life is past,Shall heal the tortured mind at last.

But if, around my place of sleep,The friends I love should come to weep,They might not haste to go.Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloomShould keep them lingering by my tomb.

So live that when thy summons comes to joinThe innumerable caravan that movesTo that mysterious realm, where each shall takeHis chamber in the silent halls of death,Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothedBy an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,Like one who wraps the drapery of his couchAbout him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

Talk is cheap - except when Congress does it.