I Shall Seethe Hour Of Death Draw

So Live, That When Thy Summons Comes To Join, The Innumerable Caravan Which Moves, To That Mysterious Realm Where Each Shall Take, His Chamber In The Silent Halls Of Death, Thou Go Not, Like The Quarry-slave At Night, Scourged By His Dungeon, But, Sustained And Soothed, By An Unfaltering Trust, Approach Thy Grave, Like One Who Wraps The Drapery Of His Couch, About Him, And Lies Down To Pleasant Dreams.

Or, Bide Thou Where The Poppy Blows With Windflowers Fail And Fair.

All Great Poets Have Been Men Of Great Knowledge.

Heed Not The Night; A Summer Lodge Amid The Wild Is Mine, 'tis Shadowed By The Tulip-tree, 'tis Mantled By The Vine.

The Sweet Calm Sunshine Of October, Now Warms The Low Spot; Upon Its Grassy Mold The Pur0ple Oak-leaf Falls; The Birchen Bough Drops Its Bright Spoil Like Arrow-heads Of Gold.