Is only a tomb. They are cheering the dead.
XI.
And he himself—did he know it all?
Had he look’d, in his youth,
Past the shadows of form to the substance of truth?
Had he learn’d that all life turns to seasons, and shifts
From winter and spring into summer and fall?
Or divined that eternity, balancing gifts,
Grants honor like heaven, a state after strife,
And a glorified name to a sacrificed life?