When fruits are golden on the burdened trees;
The sun’s pale glory on the sky’s blue gray,
And night comes fragrant on the cooling breeze.
They brought him home and laid him down to rest,
To sleep forever in his narrow bed,
Amid the scenes and friends that he loved best,
At rest forever with his sacred dead.
Like the red roses that have bloomed and died,
Whose withered sweetness scents each hallowed nook,
Shall the dead singer’s spirit still abide