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The grave's the market place.

By Nebo's lonely mountain, On this side Jordan's wave, In a vale in the land of Moab, There lies a lonely grave; But no man built that sepulcher, And no man saw it e'er, For the angels of God upturned the sod And laid the dead man there.

Mine be the breezy hill that skirts the down; Where a green grassy turf is all I crave, With here and there a violet bestrown, Fast by a brook or fountain's murmuring wave; And many an evening sun shine sweetly on my grave.

Here's an acre sown indeed, With the richest royalest seed.

One foot in the grave.

Nigh to a grave that was newly made, Leaned a sexton old on his earth-worn spade.

And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against Bethpeor: but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day.

For I know that thou wilt bring me to death, and to the house appointed for all living.

The grave, dread thing! Men shiver when thou'rt named: Nature appalled, Shakes off her wonted firmness.

See yonder maker of the dead man's bed, The sexton, hoary-headed chronicle, Of hard, unmeaning face, down which ne'er stole A gentle tear.

The grave is Heaven's golden gate, And rich and poor around it wait; O Shepherdess of England's fold, Behold this gate of pearl and gold! - William Blake,

Build me a shrine, and I could kneel To rural Gods, or prostrate fall; Did I not see, did I not feel. That One Great Spirit governs all. O Heaven, permit that I may lie Where o'er my corse green branches wave; And those who from life's tumults fly With kindred feelings press my grave.

Gravestones tell truth scarce forty years.

He that unburied lies wants not his hearse, For unto him a tomb's the Universe.

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.

I would rather sleep in the southern corner of a little country churchyard, than in the tombs of the Capulets.

Perhaps the early grave Which men weep over may be meant to save.

Of all The fools who flock'd to swell or see the show Who car'd about the corpse? The funeral Made the attraction, and the black the woe; There throbb'd not there a thought which pierc'd the pall.

What's hallowed ground? Has earth a clod Its Maker mean'd not should be trod By man, the image of his God, Erect and free, Unscourged by Superstition's rod.

But an untimely grave.