Makes one forget the busy streets of toil;
But they have little thought of worldly spoil
Or the great gain of mortal victories,
Their hopes, their dreams, are cold and dead as these
Quaint, time-worn gravestones crumbling on the soil.
Yet they once lived and struggled years ago;
Their hearts beat madly as these hearts of ours—
And now is all undone in dreamless rest?
See, a great city stands against the glow—
Their city, they who here beneath the flowers