The pleasant graveyard of my soul

With sentimental cypress trees

And flowers is filled, that I may stroll

In meditation, at my ease.

The little marble stones are lost

In flowers surging from the dead;

Nor is there any mournful ghost

To wail until the night is sped.

And while night rustles through the trees,

Dragging the stars along, I know

The moon is rising on the breeze,

Quivering as in a river's flow.

And ah! that moon of silver sheen!

It is my heart hung in the sky;

And no clouds ever float between

The grave-flowers and my heart on high.

I do not read upon each stone

The name that once was carven there;

I merely note new blossoms blown

And breathe the perfume of the air.

Thus walk I through my wonderland

While all the evening is atune,

Beneath the cypress trees that stand

Like candles to the barren moon.