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,

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.

Unprofitably travelling toward the grave.

I'm a greenery-yallery, Grosvenor Gallery, / Foot-in-the-grave young man!

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

Gravestones tell truth scarce forty years.