To the Dead
Is there a waking sorrow in the grave?
Is it not over, all that holds from sleep?
No more the heavy-footed hours shall creep,
No more in vain man’s longing heart shall crave.
The long suspense is over; earth that gave
Calls back the gift — Ah, who should strive to keep?
Dust over dust, a little narrow heap
Holds all we love — Ah, who should strive to save?
Is it not over, all that holds from sleep?
No more the heavy-footed hours shall creep,
No more in vain man’s longing heart shall crave.
The long suspense is over; earth that gave
Calls back the gift — Ah, who should strive to keep?
Dust over dust, a little narrow heap
Holds all we love — Ah, who should strive to save?
Peace, peace is yours, O dead, and yours alone.
What peace hath man, unstable man, whose breath
Serves but in vain to winnow fruitless chaff?
Yet will he ever seek, who ne’er hath known
The flying phantom Peace, till lastly Death
Writes in that word the final Epitaph.
What peace hath man, unstable man, whose breath
Serves but in vain to winnow fruitless chaff?
Yet will he ever seek, who ne’er hath known
The flying phantom Peace, till lastly Death
Writes in that word the final Epitaph.