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.

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.

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.

See yonder maker of the dead man's bed,
The sexton, hoary-headed chronicle,
Of hard, unmeaning face, down read more

See yonder maker of the dead man's bed,
The sexton, hoary-headed chronicle,
Of hard, unmeaning face, down which ne'er stole
A gentle tear.

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,

By Nebo's lonely mountain,
On this side Jordan's wave,
In a vale in the land of Moab,
read more

By Nebo's lonely mountain,
On this side Jordan's wave,
In a vale in the land of Moab,
There lies a lonely grave;
But no man built that sepulcher,
And no man saw it e'er,
For the angels of God upturned the sod
And laid the dead man there.

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.

For I know that thou wilt bring me to death, and to the house
appointed for all living.

For I know that thou wilt bring me to death, and to the house
appointed for all living.

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.