OUR LOST ONES.
“Hélas! dans le cercueil ils tombent en poussière
Moins vite qu’en nos cœurs.”
—Hugo.
Brethren and sisters all, what do we here,
With song and laughter, while around us stand,
With dumb reproachful gaze, a shadowy band,
The mournful shades of all our lost ones dear?
O conquering power of the eternal years!
How swiftly fade away on every hand
Their memories throughout the joyous land,
For whom we thought to shed eternal tears.
Smiling above them wave the flowers and grass,
Where cold and still those cherished forms are strown,
Thickly as grain in the deep furrows sown,
Or sheaves in fields where merry reapers pass.
To dust they wither in our hearts, alas!
More swiftly than beneath the cruel stone.