• 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.

    William Cullen Bryant, “June”