I see their scattered gravestones gleaming white
Through the pale dusk of the impending night.
O'er all alike the imperial sunset throws
Its golden lilies mingled with the rose;
We give to each a tender thought and pass
Out of the graveyards with their tangled grass.
Take them, O Grave! and let them lie
Folded upon thy narrow shelves,
As garments by the soul laid by,
And precious only to ourselves!
There are slave-drivers quietly whipped underground,
There bookbinders, done up in boards, are fast bound,
There card-players wait till the last trump be played,
There all the choice spirits get finally laid,
There the babe that's unborn is supplied with a berth,
There men without legs get their six feet of earth,
There lawyers repose, each wrapped up in his case,
There seekers of office are sure of a place,
There defendant and plaintiff get equally east,
There shoemakers quietly stick to the last.
As life runs on, the road grows strange
With faces new,—and near the end
The milestones into headstones change:—
'Neath every one a friend.
We should teach our children to think no more of their bodies when dead than they do of their hair when cut off, or of their old clothes when they have done with them.
Your seventh wife, Phileros, is now being buried in your field. No man's field brings him greater profit than yours, Phileros.
And so sepulchred in such pomp dost lie;
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.
There is a calm for those who weep,
A rest for weary pilgrims found,
They softly lie and sweetly sleep
Low in the ground.
(Bodies) carefully to be laid up in the wardrobe of the grave.
Pabulum Acheruntis.
Food of Acheron. (Grave.)
Yet shall thy grave with rising flow'rs be dressed,
'And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast;
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the first roses of the year shall blow.
| author = Pope
| work = Elegy on an Unfortunate Lady.
| place = L. 65.
| note =
| seealso = (See also Halleck)
| topic = Grave
| page = 339
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num = 12
| text = <poem>The grave unites; where e'en the great find rest,
And blended he th' oppressor and th' oppressed!
Ruhe eines Kirchhofs!
The churchyard's peace.
Never the grave gives back what it has won!
To that dark inn, the Grave!
Bear from hence his body;
And mourn you for him: let him be regarded
As the most noble corse that ever herald
Did follow to his urn.
The sepulchre,
Wherein we saw thee quietly inurn'd,
Hath op'd his ponderous and marble jaws.
They bore him barefac'd on the bier;
And in his grave rain'd many a tear.
Lay her i' the earth;
And from her fair and unpolluted flesh
May violets spring!
Has this fellow no feeling of his business that he sings at grave-making?
Custom hath made it in him a property of easiness.
Gilded tombs do worms infold.
Let's choose executors and talk of wills:
And yet not so, for what can we bequeath
Save our deposed bodies to the ground?
Taking the measure of an unmade grave.
The lone couch of his everlasting sleep.
O heart, and mind, and thoughts! what thing do you
Hope to inherit in the grave below?
