All The Live Murmur Of A Summer's

Spare Me The Whispering, Crowded Room, The Friends Who Come And Gape And Go, The Ceremonious Air Of Gloom - All, Which Makes Death A Hideous Show.

The Brave, Impetuous Heart Yields Everywhere To The Subtle, Contriving Head.

All Pains The Immortal Spirit Must Endure, All Weakness That Impairs, All Griefs That Bow, Find Their Sole Voice In That Victorious Brow.

Strew On Her Roses, Roses, And Never A Spray Of Yew! In Quiet She Reposes; Ah, Would That I Did Too!

Conduct Is Three-fourths Of Our Life And Its Largest Concern.