Normale Version: GRASS-GROWN
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GRASS grows at last above all graves, you say ?
Why, therein lies the sharpest sting of all !
To think that stars will rise and dews will fall,
Hills flush with purple splendor, soft winds play

Where roses bloom and violets of May,
Robin to robin in the tree-tops call,
And all sweet sights and sounds the senses thrall,
Just as they did before that dreadful day!

Does that bring comfort ? Are we glad to know
That our eyes sometime must forget to weep,
Even as June forgets December's snow ?

Over the graves where our beloved sleep,
We charge thee, Time, let not the green grass grow,
Nor your relentless mosses coldly creep !