Thomas Hood (1799–1845)

IT is not death, that some time in a sigh

This eloquent breath shall take its speechless flight;

That some time these bright stars, that now reply

In sunlight to the sun, shall set in night;

That this warm conscious flesh shall perish quite;

And all life’s ruddy springs forget to flow;

That thoughts shall cease, and the immortal spright

Be lapped 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.