Come when our graves will be gay:
When daffodils all are a-blowing,
And larks are a-thrilling the skies,
Oh, come with the hearts of you glowing,
And the joy of the Spring in your eyes.
But never, oh! never come sighing,
For ours was the Splendid Release;
And oh! but 'twas joy in the dying
To know we were winning you Peace.
So come when the valleys are sheening,