The Last Resting Place.
At last, rest. To many weary hearts it must have become a pitiful consolation that this at least is sure. “After life’s fitful fever he sleeps well.” And in that sleep no fevered passion can even “ruffle one corner of the folded shroud.” At last, rest; where the enmities and the ambitions are forgotten. In the presence of this stillness of death, even to the living their disputes seem small. If the mood could endure, death might not be needed to bring peace.