The peace of the rose whose leaves lie low,
Scattered and dead, where roses grow.
Far away! far away!
There the dead bird takes a song again,
And the steed has rest from the spur and rein,
And the dead man learns that all were vain—
All the old struggles, and joys, and pain.
Far away! far away!
And the light on their eyes is a wondrous light,
Where there is not day and there is not night,