Nor hostile challenge at the simple wicket
Through which our footsteps pass.
Sweet spot, by Nature’s primal consecration
Sacred to peace and thought and calm repose,
Well in thy breast that elder generation
Their place of burial chose.
And well, to-day, whene’er the sad procession
Moves o’er the plain, with slow and measured tread,
Within thy silent and secure possession
The living leave the dead.