To stay in atmosphere like this.
There’s not a pang that rends the heart,
In the long catalogue of woe,
Of which I have not shared a part,
In this, my pilgrimage below;
I’ve quaffed at sorrow’s bitter cup,
And drank its turbid waters up.
And now I wish to lay me down,
My mother, Earth, upon thy breast,
When the green turf, with flowers o’ergrown,