Robed in the dreamy light of distant years,

Are clustered joys serene of other days;

Upon its gentle, sloping hillside bend

The weeping willow o’er the sacred dust

Of dear departed ones: and yet in that land,

Where’er our footsteps fall upon the shore,

They that were sleeping rise from out the dust

Of death’s long, silent years, and ’round us stand,

As erst they did before the prison tomb

Received their clay within its voiceless halls.