The grave is Heaven's golden gate,
And rich and poor around it wait;
O Shepherdess of England's read more

The grave is Heaven's golden gate,
And rich and poor around it wait;
O Shepherdess of England's fold,
Behold this gate of pearl and gold!
- William Blake,

We weep over the graves of infants and the little ones taken from us by death; but an early grave read more

We weep over the graves of infants and the little ones taken from us by death; but an early grave may be the shortest way to heaven.

He spake well who said that graves are the footprints of angels.

He spake well who said that graves are the footprints of angels.

Alas, poor Tom! how oft, with merry heart,
Have we beheld thee play the Sexton's part;
Each read more

Alas, poor Tom! how oft, with merry heart,
Have we beheld thee play the Sexton's part;
Each comic heart must now be grieved to see
The Sexton's dreary part performed on thee.

The solitary, silent, solemn scene,
Where Caesars, heroes, peasants, hermits lie,
Blended in dust together; where the read more

The solitary, silent, solemn scene,
Where Caesars, heroes, peasants, hermits lie,
Blended in dust together; where the slave
Rests from his labors; where th' insulting proud
Resigns his powers; the miser drops his hoard:
Where human folly sleeps.

Mine be the breezy hill that skirts the down;
Where a green grassy turf is all I crave,
read more

Mine be the breezy hill that skirts the down;
Where a green grassy turf is all I crave,
With here and there a violet bestrown,
Fast by a brook or fountain's murmuring wave;
And many an evening sun shine sweetly on my grave.

Nigh to a grave that was newly made,
Leaned a sexton old on his earth-worn spade.

Nigh to a grave that was newly made,
Leaned a sexton old on his earth-worn spade.

Build me a shrine, and I could kneel
To rural Gods, or prostrate fall;
Did I not read more

Build me a shrine, and I could kneel
To rural Gods, or prostrate fall;
Did I not see, did I not feel.
That One Great Spirit governs all.
O Heaven, permit that I may lie
Where o'er my corse green branches wave;
And those who from life's tumults fly
With kindred feelings press my grave.

Gravestones tell truth scarce forty years.

Gravestones tell truth scarce forty years.