Thanatopsis

by William Cullen Bryant

To him who in the love of nature holds

Communion with her visible forms, she speaks

A verious language; for his gayer hours

She has a voice of gladness, and a smile

And eloquance of beauty, with a mild

And healing sympathy that steals away

Their sharpness ere he is aware.

When thoughts of the last bitter hour come like a blight

Over they spirit, and sad images

Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall.

And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,

Make thee to shutter, and grow sick at heart;--

Go forth, under the open sky, and list

To Nature's teachings, while from all around--

Earth and her waters, and the depths of air--

Comes a still voice.

Yet a few days, and thee

The all-beholding sun shall see no more

In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,

Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,

Nor in the embrace of the ocean, shall exist

Thy image.

Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim

Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,

And, lost each human trace, surrendering up

Thing individual being, shalt thou go

To mix forever with the elements,

To be a brother to the insensible rock

And the the sluggish clod, which the rude swain

Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak

Shall sends his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold.

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place

Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish

Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down

With patriarchs of the infant world--with kings,

The powerful of the earth--the wise, the good,

Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,

All in one mighty sequence.