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 He that unburied lies wants not his hearse,
 For unto him a tomb's the Universe.  
 He that unburied lies wants not his hearse,
 For unto him a tomb's the Universe. 
 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. 
 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. 
 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. 
 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. 
A grave, wherever found, preaches a short and pithy sermon to the soul.
A grave, wherever found, preaches a short and pithy sermon to the soul.
 Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast,
 The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
  Some mute inglorious read more 
 Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast,
 The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
  Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
   Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. 
The only difference between a rut and a grave is their dimensions.
The only difference between a rut and a grave is their dimensions.