On this sweet Sabbath morning, let us wander
From the loud music and the gay parade,
Where sleeps the graveyard in its silence yonder,
Deep in the mountain shade.
There, side by side, the dark green cedars cluster
Like sentries watching by that camp of Death;
There, like an army’s tents, with snow-white lustre
The gravestones gleam beneath.
But, as we go, no posted guard or picket
Stays our approach across the level grass,