Rots slowly away in its living grave,
And the green moss creeps o’er its dull decay,
Hiding its moldering dust away.
Like the hand that plants o’er the tomb a flower
Or the ivy that mantles the falling tower;
While many a blossom of loveliest hue
Springs up o’er the stern of the old canoe.
The current-less waters are dead and still,
But the light wind plays with the boat at will;
And lazily in and out again