Glorious Are The Woods In Their Latest

I Gazed Upon The Glorious Sky And The Green Mountains Round, And Thought That When I Came To Lie At Rest Within The Ground, 'twere Pleasant, That In Flowery June When Brooks Send Up A Cheerful Tune, And Groves A Joyous Sound, The Sexton's Hand, My Grave To Make, The Rich, Green Mountain-turf Should Break.

The Little Wind-flower, Whose Just Opened Eye Is Blue As The Spring Heaven It Gazes At.

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.

A Stable, Changeless State, 'twere Cause Indeed To Weep.

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.