John Greenleaf Whittier

Alas for him who never sees
The stars shine through his cypress-trees
Who, hopeless, lays his dead read more

Alas for him who never sees
The stars shine through his cypress-trees
Who, hopeless, lays his dead away,
Nor looks to see the breaking day
Across the mournful marbles play!

For of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: "It might have been!".

For of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: "It might have been!".

Again the blackbirds sings; the streams
Wake, laughing, from their winter dreams,
And tremble in the April read more

Again the blackbirds sings; the streams
Wake, laughing, from their winter dreams,
And tremble in the April showers
The tassels of the maple flowers.

And close at hand, the basket stood
With nuts from brown October's wood.

And close at hand, the basket stood
With nuts from brown October's wood.

The green earth sends her incense up. From many a mountain shrine; From folded leaf and dewey cup read more

The green earth sends her incense up. From many a mountain shrine; From folded leaf and dewey cup She pours her sacred wine.