Classic Poem

Sleep on, sleep on, ye resting dead;
The grass is o'er ye growing
In dewy greenness. Ever fled
From you hath care; and, in its stead,
Peace hath with you its dwelling made,
Where tears doth cease from flowing.
Sleep on!

Sleep on, sleep on: ye do not feel
Life's ever-burning fever —
Nor scorn that sears, nor pains that steel
And blanch the loving heart, until
'Tis like the bed of mountain-rill
Which waves have left for ever!
Sleep on!

Sleep on, sleep on: your couch is made
Upon your mother's bosom;
Yea, and your peaceful lonely bed
Is all with sweet wild-flowers inlaid;
And over each earth-pillowed head
The hand of nature strews them.
Sleep on!

Sleep on, sleep on: I would I were
At rest within your dwelling, —
No more to feel no more to bear
The world's falsehood and its care —
The arrows it doth never spare
On him whose feet are failing.