A DIRGE.
Mourn for the untimely dead!
Early blossoms quickly shed!
Soon taken to their long long rest,
Now there waves
The green grass thickly o'er their breast,
On their graves.
Neither care nor sorrow now
Leaves its trace upon their brow,
Nor can pain them more molest,
For there waves
The green grass thickly o'er their breast,
On their graves.
Little flowers their heads begem,
But they cannot look at them,
For death's cold hand their eyes have prest,
And there waves
The green grass thickly o'er their breast
On their graves.
Winds sigh through the shadowing trees,
Summer brings the hum of bees;
But no sounds can their ears invest,
Where there waves
The green grass thickly o'er their breast
On their graves.
Still they lie in their low beds,
To sleep till the last morn sheds
Its light upon their place of rest:
Now there waves
The green grass thickly o'er their breast
On their graves.