And the loftiest hopes man nurses,
Never deem them idly born;
Never think that deathly curses
Blight them on a funeral morn.
Buds of their perennial nature
Need a region where to blow,
Where the stalk has loftier stature
Than it reaches here below.
Not like us they dread the bosom
Of chill earth's sepulchral gloom;
They will find them where to blossom,
And perhaps select a _tomb_.
Yes, a _tomb_; so thou mayst deem it,
With regretful feelings fond;
_Not_ a _tomb_, however, seems it,
If thou know'st to look _beyond_.
10th of 7th Month, 1847.
_8th Mo. 8th_. We alone. Pleasant and quiet
schemes have arisen (partly from reading Pyecroft,
partly from having felt so much my own deficiencies)
for thoroughly industrious study, and for keeping, if
possible, externals and mentals in more order. Order,
I believe, would enable me to do much more than I
do in this way, without lessening those little "good
works" which my natural, unsanctified conscience
requires as a sedative; (alas that this is so nearly
all!) but I have got such an impression of selfishness
in sitting down to read to myself, that this, added to
unsettlement from company, etc., almost puts study
out of sight.
_8th Mo.
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