There is but one easy place in this world, and that is the grave.

There is but one easy place in this world, and that is the grave.

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.

Here's an acre sown indeed,
With the richest royalest seed.

Here's an acre sown indeed,
With the richest royalest seed.

The grave, dread thing!
Men shiver when thou'rt named: Nature appalled,
Shakes off her wonted firmness.

The grave, dread thing!
Men shiver when thou'rt named: Nature appalled,
Shakes off her wonted firmness.

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.

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.

And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against
Bethpeor: but no man knoweth read more

And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against
Bethpeor: but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day.

O how small a portion of earth will hold us when we are dead, who ambitiously seek after the whole read more

O how small a portion of earth will hold us when we are dead, who ambitiously seek after the whole world while we are living.

I gazed upon the glorious sky
And the green mountains round,
And thought that when I came read more

I gazed upon the glorious sky
And the green mountains round,
And thought that when I came to lie
At rest within the ground,
'Twere pleasant, that in flowery June
When brooks send up a cheerful tune,
And groves a joyous sound,
The sexton's hand, my grave to make,
The rich, green mountain-turf should break.