O Death, O Beyond, Thou Art Sweet,

The Tyrant Should Take Heed To What He Doth, Since Every Victim-carrion Turns To Use, And Drives A Chariot, Like A God Made Wroth, Against Each Piled Injustice.

For Me, My Heart, That Erst Did Go Most Like A Tired Child At A Show, That Sees Through Tears The Mummers Leap, Would Now Its Wearied Vision Close, Would Childlike On His Love Repose, Who Giveth His Beloved, Sleep.

For 'tis Not In Mere Death That Men Die Most.

You Smell A Rose Through A Fence: If Two Should Smell It, What Matter?

Some People Always Sigh In Thanking God.