How beautiful thine endless rest!
The quiet conscience in thy breast,
Thy hidden place of peace, where pass
The ghost-like stirrings of the grass;
The long immunity from strife,
The tumult, love; the trouble, life;
The blossom at thy feet, to be
A thousand summers, dust like thee;
The winding-sheet, that white as worth,
Shuts all thy failings in the earth.