these funeral pomps and poses!
Is Life Dyspepsia’s and Despair’s,
And Love’s complexion all chlorosis?
A lie! There’s Health, and Mirth, and Song,
The World still laughs, and goes a-Maying—
The dismal, droning, doleful Throng
Are only smuts in sunshine playing!

Play up, ye horns of Fairyland!
Shine out, O sun, and planets seven!
Beyond these clouds a beckoning Hand
Gleams from the lattices of Heaven!
The World’s alive—still quick, not dead,
It needs no Undertaker’s warning;
So put the Dismal Throng to bed,
And wake once more to Light and Morning!