Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend
The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.
Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north-wind’s breath,
And stars to set, but all—
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death.
Felicia Hemans.
SONNET.
Thrice happy he who by some shady grove,
Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own;