To weep at such an hour. ’Tis manliness
To yield the heart to feeling, and to loose
The shackles that so cramp its energies,
And bind it down to the unfeeling world.
Yet why thus mourn for those who die, when age
Has made existence but a weariness?
Why grieve that they should cast aside the coil
That binds them to the earth and wretchedness?
We do not weep at Autumn; when the leaves
Lie in the valleys—mortals never weep