Of the small, tremulous lark—boon Nature’s evening bell.
HEREAFTER.
Oh, man is higher than his dwelling-place;
Upward he looks, and his soul’s wings unfold,
And, when like minutes sixty years have rolled,
He rises, kindling, into boundless space.
Then backward to the Earth, his native place,
The ashes of his feathers lightly fall,
And his free soul, unveiled, disrobed of all
That cumbered it, begins its heavenly race,