Were simple as the close of day,
Were simple as the fathers say,
Were simple as their peace was deep
Who in the old faith fell asleep!
No night bird now makes murmur; in the trees
No drowsy chuckle of dark-nested ease.
The campfire's last grey embers fall.
With dipping prow and shallop sides
The slender moon to her mooring rides
Over the ridge of Isle La Salle,