“Thanatopsis”
By William Cullen Bryant
That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
To him who in the love of Nature holds
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
A various language; for his gayer hours
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste,—
Are but the solemn decorations all
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
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Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
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The globe are but a handful to the tribes
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Into his darker musings, with a mild
That slumber in its bosom.—Take the wings
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,
Over thy spirit, and sad images
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Save his own dashings—yet the dead are there:
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And millions in those solitudes, since first
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
The flight of years began, have laid them down
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart—
In their last sleep—the dead reign there alone.
Go forth, under the open sky, and list
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So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw
To Nature's teachings, while from all around—
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In silence from the living, and no friend
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air—
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Comes a still voice—
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
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When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Yet a few days, and thee
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave 65
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, 20
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Of ages glides away, the sons of men,
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
The youth in life's fresh spring, and he who goes
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
In the full strength of years, matron and maid, 70
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
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The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man—
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,
To mix for ever with the elements,
By those, who in their turn shall follow them.
To be a brother to the insensible rock
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
So live, that when thy summons comes to join
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak 30
The innumerable caravan, which moves
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
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His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings, 35
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good,
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun—the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods—rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
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