The grave is still the best shelter against the storms of destiny.

The grave is still the best shelter against the storms of destiny.

I gazed upon the glorious sky
And the green mountains round,
And thought that when I came read more

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 was able to go to Iraq.. to the place my son died..
and fill my promise to my wife read more

I was able to go to Iraq.. to the place my son died..
and fill my promise to my wife to put a crucifix on
the spot.. and bring home some of the blood
drenched dirt..and plant a white rose bush in it
Military Families Speak Out.. broadcast on C Span.

The grave is Heaven's golden gate,
And rich and poor around it wait;
O Shepherdess of England's read more

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,

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

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

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

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

See yonder maker of the dead man's bed,
The sexton, hoary-headed chronicle,
Of hard, unmeaning face, down read more

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.

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

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

Mine be the breezy hill that skirts the down;
Where a green grassy turf is all I crave,
read more

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.