For those who place their blooms on new-made graves
—And feel that life holds nought but emptiness,
Know that time's hand in kindness ever saves
—The heart from too much sorrow and distress.

Yet all deep wounds heal slowly, it would seem,
—But gradually the yearning pain will cease. . . .
Thus will your grief become a hallowed dream
—And, in its stead, will come a strange new peace.

For those who place their blooms on new-made graves
—And feel that life holds nought but emptiness,
Know that time's hand in kindness ever saves
—The heart from too much sorrow and distress.

Yet all deep wounds heal slowly, it would seem,
—But gradually the yearning pain will cease. . . .
Thus will your grief become a hallowed dream
—And, in its stead, will come a strange new peace.