And the great mother on each bed
Lays it, a fragrant coverlid.
You, who with garlands go about,
As the tree-tilting bird pours out
O’er either mound his singing bliss,
Oh, kind as birds and breezes, leave
A flower on that grave, and on this!
For, lo, the eternal truce of death
Was called upon the passing breath,
And all the phantom hates, that shed