Let me share with you a poem I memorized in high school because I liked it so much.

[shraby]

Thanatopsis
By William Cullen Bryant

To him who in the love of Nature holds


Communion with her visible forms, she speaks


A various language; for his gayer hours


She has a voice of gladness, and a smile


And eloquence of beauty, and she glides


Into his darker musings, with a mild


And healing sympathy, that steals away


Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts


Of the last bitter hour come like a blight


Over thy spirit, and sad images


Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,


And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,


Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;—


Go forth, under the open sky, and list


To Nature’s teachings, while from all around—


Earth and her waters, and the depths of air—


Comes a still voice—


Yet a few days, and thee


The all-beholding sun shall see no more


In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,


Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,


Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist


Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim


Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,


And, lost each human trace, surrendering up


Thine individual being, shalt thou go


To mix for ever with the elements,


To be a brother to the insensible rock


And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain


Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak


Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.


Yet not to thine eternal resting-place


Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish


Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down


With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings,


The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good,


Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,


All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills


Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,—the vales


Stretching in pensive quietness between;


The venerable woods—rivers that move


In majesty, and the complaining brooks


That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,


Old Ocean’s gray and melancholy waste,—


Are but the solemn decorations all


Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,


The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,


Are shining on the sad abodes of death,


Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread


The globe are but a handful to the tribes


That slumber in its bosom.—Take the wings


Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,


Or lose thyself in the continuous woods


Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,


Save his own dashings—yet the dead are there:


And millions in those solitudes, since first


The flight of years began, have laid them down


In their last sleep—the dead reign there alone.


So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw


In silence from the living, and no friend


Take note of thy departure? All that breathe


Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh


When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care


Plod on, and each one as before will chase


His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave


Their mirth and their employments, and shall come


And make their bed with thee. As the long train


Of ages glide away, the sons of men,


The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goes


In the full strength of years, matron and maid,


The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man—


Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,


By those, who in their turn shall follow them.


So live, that when thy summons comes to join


The innumerable caravan, which moves


To that mysterious realm, where each shall take


His chamber in the silent halls of death,


Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,


Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed


By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,


Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch


About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

[dixiegrrrrl]

1. As the long train Of ages glide away......etc.

esp. nice.

thank you for posting this.....

[shraby]

2. You're welcome.