Flowers Spring Up Unsown And Die Ungathered.

Pleasantly, Between The Pelting Showers, The Sunshine Gushes Down.

Is Not Thy Home Among The Flowers?

Glorious Are The Woods In Their Latest Gold And Crimson, Yet Our Full-leaved Willows Are In The Freshest Green. Such A Kindly Autumn, So Mercifully Dealing With The Growths Of Summer, I Never Yet Have Seen.

Heed Not The Night; A Summer Lodge Amid The Wild Is Mine, 'tis Shadowed By The Tulip-tree, 'tis Mantled By The Vine.

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.