About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.

Clay lies still, but blood's a rover;
Breath's a ware that will not keep.
Up, lad; when the journey's over
There'll be time enough for sleep.

From far, from eve and morning
And yon twelve-winded sky,
The stuff of life to knit me
Blew hither: here am I.

Perfect understanding will sometimes almost extinguish pleasure.

And silence sounds no worse than cheers
After death has stopped the ears.