Our dead

We bury our dead,
We lay them to sleep
With the earth for their bed,
With stones at their head:
We leave them and weep
When we bury our dead.

We bury our dead,
We lay them to sleep,—
On our Mother's calm breast
We leave them to rest—
To rest while we weep.

We bury our dead,
We lay them to sleep—
They reck not our tears,
Though the sad years creep—
Through our tears, through the years
They tranquilly sleep.

We bury our dead,
We lay them to sleep;
We bury the bloom
Of our life,—all our bloom
In the coffin we fold:
We enfold in the tomb:
We reenter the room
We left young,—we are old.

We bury our dead,
We lay them to sleep;
The cold Time-tides flow
With winter and spring,
With birds on the wing,
With roses and snow,
With friends who beguile
Our sorrow with pity—
With pity awhile.
Then weary and smile,
Then chide us, say, "Lo!
How the sun shines,—'t is May."
But we know 't is not so—
That the sun died that day
When we laid them away,
With the earth for a bed—
When we buried our dead.

We bury our dead,
We lay them to sleep;
We turn back to the world;
We are caught,—we are whirled
In the rush of the current—
The rush and the sweep
Of the tide, without rest.
But they sleep—they the blest—
The Blessed dead sleep:
They tranquilly rest
On our Mother's calm breast.