Not where willow branches wave,
Lay them in no sombre shadow;
Make the dead a sunny grave
In the meadow,
Where the sun may shine above them,
With the daisies overtopping,
And the gentle rain upon them,
Dropping, dropping.
Words of promise, "They shall rise,"
Have by holy lips been spoken;
Heaven binds anew the ties
Death hath broken.
Words of blessing, "For thy rest,"
Consecrate their peaceful slumber
From the grave spring hopes, the best
That love can number.
Death was master, cold and stern
Tyrant of the infant ages;
Setting lessons hard to learn
To their sages.
Bring his records to the light,
Let the spring with kindly wiling
Legends sweet upon them write
For grief's beguiling.
Lay the dead where dews may fall
Blessed tears without the aching;
Where the sight and sound of all
May heal heart breaking,
Sacred is the burial sod,
Make it fair as it is worthy,
Set the sign and seal of God
Above the earthy.
