IT is not death, that sometime in a sigh   This eloquent breath shall take its speechless flight; That sometime these bright stars, that now reply   In sunlight to the sun, shall set in night;   That this warm conscious flesh shall perish quite, And all life's ruddy springs forget to flow;   That thoughts shall cease, and the immortal sprite Be lapp'd in alien clay and laid below; It is not death to know this—but to know   That pious thoughts, which visit at new graves In tender pilgrimage, will cease to go   So duly and so oft—and when grass waves Over the pass'd-away, there may be then No resurrection in the minds of men.