  O THE grave is a quiet place, my dear, So still and so quiet by night and by day, Reached by no sound either joyous or drear, But keeping its silence alway, alway. O the grave is a restful place, my dear, Unvext by the weightiest loss or gain, All the undone work of the speeding year May beat at its portals in vain, in vain. O the grave is a tender place, my dear, The Love immortal, the faith, the trust, The grace and the beauty, lie buried there, So pure and so white in a robe of dust. O the grave is a home-like place, my dear, Where we all do gather when day is done, Where the earth mother folds us close and near, And the latch-string waits for the laggard one. |
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