TO J. W.

Set not thy foot on graves;

Hear what wine and roses say;

The mountain chase, the summer waves,

The crowded town, thy feet may well delay.

Set not thy foot on graves;

Nor seek to unwind the shroud

Which charitable Time

And Nature have allowed

To wrap the errors of a sage sublime.

Set not thy foot on graves;

Care not to strip the dead

Of his sad ornament,

His myrrh, and wine, and rings,

His sheet of lead,

And trophies buried:

Go, get them where he earned them when alive;

As resolutely dig or dive.

Life is too short to waste

In critic peep or cynic bark,

Quarrel or reprimand:

‘ T will soon be dark;

Up! mind thine own aim, and

God speed the mark!