It Is Not Death, That Sometime In A Sigh This Eloquent Breath Shall Take Its Speechless Flight; That Sometime These Bright Stars, That Now Reply In Sunlight To The Sun, Shall Set In Night; That Warm Conscious Flesh Shall Perish Quite, And All Life'S Ruddy Springs Forget To Flow; That Thoughts Shall Cease, And The Immortal Sprite Be Lapp'D 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.