With a kiss and a sigh, and a last good-bye,
Through the little lone gate in the ground.
’Tis fixed by fate, we must pass through the gate,
The dear little gate in the ground,
At the end of our ways of nights and days,
It is marked by a grassy mound;
We bend o’er the bier, with a sob and a tear,
From the still lips comes no sound,—
We never can know, where God’s gardens grow,
’Till we pass through the gate in the ground.