Id cinerem aut Manis credis curare sepultos?

"Do you think their spirits care

For their ashes and their tombs?"

Do you think they are aware,

That the tended roses are all gone with their perfumes,

That the footsteps of the mourners no longer linger

there,

Where the field flower only blooms?

They are dead. Let none remember;

Let their memories die as they;

Clear the dead leaves of November

For the careless passing footsteps of April and of May;

Be no sign of last night's saddened ember

In the flame we raise to-day.

Not that our hearts are cold,

O dead friends, who were dear to us!

Do we our lips withhold

From fallen stones and low graves piteous,

But only that death's voice is faint and old,

And life's imperious.