How still they sleep within the city moil

In their old church-yard with its sighing trees,

Where sometimes through the din a twilight breeze

Makes one forget the busy streets of toil;

But they have little thought of worldly spoil

Or the great gain of mortal victories,

Their hopes, their dreams, are cold and dead as these

Quaint, time-worn gravestones crumbling on the soil.

Yet they once lived and struggled years ago;

Their hearts beat madly as these hearts of ours—

And now is all undone in dreamless rest?

See, a great city stands against the glow—

Their city, they who here beneath the flowers

Have known so long God’s gift of peace, most blest!