The grave a place of beauty and of flowers,
With fragrant wreaths, and summer boughs array’d,
And lovely sculpture gleaming through the shade.
Is it for us a darker gloom to shed
O’er its dim precincts?—do we not intrust
But for a time its chambers with our dead,
And strew immortal seed upon the dust?
Why should we dwell on that which lies beneath,
When living light hath touch’d the brow of death?