Sonnet. Death.
By Thomas Hood
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 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 past-away, there may be then No resurrection in the minds of men.
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"It is not death, that sometime in a sigh..."
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