The Mighty Rain Holds The Vast Empire

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.

Still Sweet With Blossoms Is The Year's Fresh Prime.

Where Are The Flowers, The Fair Young Flowers, That Lately Sprang And Stood In Brighter Light And Softer Airs, A Beauteous Sisterhood?

Remorse Is Virtue's Root; Its Fair Increase Is Fruits Of Innocence And Blessedness.

The Hushed Winds Their Sabbath Keep.