The stately music of a funeral hymn;
Nor on some wind-swept hill, whose wavering grass
Sways to the summer breezes blowing free,
While the great cedars, rustling as they pass,
Murmur a cadence of the mournful sea;
Not in the arched depths of the solemn woods,
Within the flickering shadows cool and deep,
Where the still wing of silence ever broods,
And woos the weary soul to dreamless sleep.
But build it in the temple of my heart,