The Grave

THE Grave, it is deep and soundless,
And canopied over with clouds;

And trackless and dim and boundless
Is the Unknown Land that it shrouds.

In vain may the nightingales warble
Their songs — the roses of Love

And Friendship grow white on the marble
The Living have reared above.

The virgin, bereft at her bridal
Of him she has loved, may weep;

The wail of the orphan is idle;

It breaks not the buried one's sleep.

Yet everywhere else shall mortals
For Peace unavailingly roam:

Except through the Shadowy Portals
Goeth none to his genuine home!

And the heart that Tempest and Sorrow
Have beaten against for years,

Must look for a sunnier morrow
Beyond this Temple of Tears.