What death must fashion for eternity!
O joyous creatures! that will sink to rest
Lightly, when those pure orisons are done
As birds with slumber’s honey-dew opprest,
Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun—
Lift up your hearts! though yet no sorrow lies
Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes.
Though fresh within your breasts th’ untroubled springs
Of hope make melody where’er ye tread,
And o’er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings