There is a spirit in
these ancient stones, These grassy mounds and immemorial
trees That scarse seems conscious of the passing breeze
So deep they brood above the sleeping bones Of happy
mortals eased of toilsome breath, A power not alien to
this gentle vale, Not alien to this quiet folk that fail
In no observance due to life or death The spirit and the
power of lives that pass Their labours ended, and their
laughter fled, To mingle with the dust their hands have
tilled, To take their rest beneath the silent grass
Their fathers planted, and their sons shall tread, The
measure of man's destiny fulfiled. |