AN END.
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ove, strong as Death, is dead.Come, let us make his bedAmong the dying flowers:A green turf at his head;And a stone at his feet,Whereon we may sitIn the quiet evening hours. He was born in the Spring,And died before the harvesting:On the last warm summer dayHe left us; he would not stayFor autumn twilight, cold and gray.Sit we by his grave, and singHe is gone away. To few chords and sad and lowSing we so:Be our eyes fixed on the grassShadow-veiled as the years pass,While we think of all that wasIn the long ago.
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