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Though the sexton, grim and old,
Turns the mould,
Damp and cold,
In the churchyard, for the bed
Of the still and holy dead;


Though we see the green turf pressed
On each breast
Full of rest,
Full of quiet, sweet and deep,
Yet not there our loved ones sleep.


O, the graves where they are laid
Sexton's spade
Never made!
Nor do sculptured tablets tell
That within the heart they dwell.


Where the winter winds, we know,
Cannot blow,
And the snow
Never hides the flowers that grow,
Fadeless, from the dust below.