Ermine robes of the winter's weaving
Jeweled and gilt by the shining sun;
Autumn leaves in their glory leaving
Lonely trees when their work is done;
Summer rains in their quiet weeping,
Bending the daisy's crown of snow,
Fall on graves in whose silent keeping
Slumber our loved ones cold and low.
Tiny fingers of creeping grasses
Weave a coverlet fresh and fair,
Gently stirred by the wind that passes
With low sound as the voice of prayer;
Tiny fingers of creeping mosses
Note the words on the marble cold,
Cover the dates of our sad losses,
Touch the names that we loved of old.
Crickets chirp in the leafy places,
Honey bees in the blossoms throng,
Sailing shadow on shadow chases,
Birds encumber the air with song;
Ivies clamber over the crosses,
Droop and cling to the earthy mold,
Catching sweets that the lily tosses
Down from her cup of white and gold.
Silent and sad the mighty shadows
Settle over each mossy mound;
Sailing fogs from the marshy meadows
Gently, mistily wrap them round;
Moonbeams bright with shadowy edges
Caught from the dark fir trees that pass,
Shimmer and gleam like silver wedges
Dropped adown in the dewy grass.
Starry lights in the heavenly spaces
Watch above in the solemn night:
Guarding mists that the day displaces
Rise on sunbeam ladders of light;
Bending roses of summer pressing
Sweet red lips to the daisy snow,
Murmur ever of peace and blessing
Over our loved ones cold and low!
