The profound words from Percy Bysshe Shelley's poem "On Death" encircled by the remains of those gone beyond before us, their skeletons enveloped by the surrounding overgrowth and vines.
The text reads:
The secret things of the grave are there,
Where all but this frame must surely be,
Though the fine-wrought eye and the wondrous ear
No longer will live to hear or to see
All that is great and all that is strange
In the boundless realm of unending change.
August 23rd, 2013
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