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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=420750" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Old Burying-Ground</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Our vales are sweet with fern and rose,<br>Our hills are maple-crowned;<br>But not from them our fathers chose<br>The village burying-ground.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The dreariest spot in all the land<br>To Death they set apart;<br>With scanty grace from Nature's hand,<br>And none from that of Art.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A winding wall of mossy stone,<br>Frost-flung and broken, lines<br>A lonesome acre thinly grown<br>With grass and wandering vines.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Without the wall a birch-tree shows<br>Its drooped and tasselled head;<br>Within, a stag-horned sumach grows,<br>Fern-leafed, with spikes of red.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There, sheep that graze the neighboring plain<br>Like white ghosts come and go,<br>The farm-horse drags his fetlock chain,<br>The cow-bell tinkles slow.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Low moans the river from its bed,<br>The distant pines reply;<br>Like mourners shrinking from the dead,<br>They stand apart and sigh.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Unshaded smites the summer sun,<br>Unchecked the winter blast;<br>The school-girl learns the place to shun,<br>With glances backward cast.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For thus our fathers testified,<br>That he might read who ran,<br>The emptiness of human pride,<br>The nothingness of man.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They dared not plant the grave with flowers,<br>Nor dress the funeral sod,<br>Where, with a love as deep as ours,<br>They left their dead with God.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The hard and thorny path they kept<br>From beauty turned aside;<br>Nor missed they over those who slept<br>The grace to life denied.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yet still the wilding flowers would blow,<br>The golden leaves would fall,<br>The seasons come, the seasons go,<br>And God be good to all.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Above the graves the' blackberry hung<br>In bloom and green its wreath,<br>And harebells swung as if they rung<br>The chimes of peace beneath.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The beauty Nature loves to share,<br>The gifts she hath for all,<br>The common light, the common air,<br>O'ercrept the graveyard's wall.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It knew the glow of eventide,<br>The sunrise and the noon,<br>And glorified and sanctified<br>It slept beneath the moon.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">With flowers or snow-flakes for its sod,<br>Around the seasons ran,<br>And evermore the love of God<br>Rebuked the fear of man.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">We dwell with fears on either hand,<br>Within a daily strife,<br>And spectral problems waiting stand<br>Before the gates of life.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The doubts we vainly seek to solve,<br>The truths we know, are one;<br>The known and nameless stars revolve<br>Around the Central Sun.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And if we reap as we have sown,<br>And take the dole we deal,<br>The law of pain is love alone,<br>The wounding is to heal.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Unharmed from change to change we glide,<br>We fall as in our dreams;<br>The far-off terror at our side<br>A smiling angel seems.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Secure on God's all-tender heart<br>Alike rest great and small;<br>Why fear to lose our little part,<br>When He is pledged for all?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O fearful heart and troubled brain<br>Take hope and strength from this,--<br>That Nature never hints in vain,<br>Nor prophesies amiss.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Her wild birds sing the same sweet stave,<br>Her lights and airs are given<br>Alike to playground and the grave;<br>And over both is Heaven.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Greenleaf+Whittier">John Greenleaf Whittier</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=420750" data-title="The Old Burying-Ground de John Greenleaf Whittier" data-description="Our vales are sweet with fern and rose,
Our hills are maple-crowned;
But not from them our fathers chose
The village burying-ground.

The dreariest spot in all the land
To Death they set apart;
With scanty grace from Nature's hand,
And none from t..."></div>
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