The movelessness, the unknown dread,
Fair life to pulseless silence wed!
And is the grave so darkly deep,
So hopeless, as it seems in sleep?
Can our sweet selves the coffin hold
So dumb within its crumbling mould?
And is the shroud so dank and drear
A garb,—the noisome worm so near?
Where then is Heaven’s mercy fled,—
To quite forget the voiceless dead?