For the mould may be frail—
And still with our hope must be mingled the fear—
And, even now, while we speak, the mishap may be near!
To the dark womb of sacred earth
This labour of our hands is given,
As seeds that wait the second birth,
And turn to blessings watch'd by heaven!
Ah seeds, how dearer far than they
We bury in the dismal tomb,
Where Hope and Sorrow bend to pray