To his foster-mother, Ocean, entrust the mariner in hope;
The warrior's spirit, let it rise on high from the flaming fragrant pyre.
But heap not coffins and corruption to infect the mass of living,
Nor steal from odious realities the charitable poetry of Death:
It is wise to gild uncomeliness, it is wise to mask necessity,
It is wise from cheerful sights and sounds to draw their gentle uses:
Hide the facts, the bitter facts, the foul, and fearful facts,
Tend the body well in hope, this were praise and wisdom:
But to plunge in gloom the parting soul, that hath loved its clay tenement so long,
This were vanity and folly, the counsel of moroseness and despair.