Classic Poem

To this burying
We come alone, — you and I, — not with our dead,
But with our dearest living; O, could mortal tread
Be unfaltering!


God knows how we love it,
This we have come to bury; the eyes smile, — life's best wine
The hands hold out! Darling, shall it be yours, or mine,
To lay the first sod above it?


But no decaying
Can reach it in this sepulchre, whose stone
Our hearts must make! To an exceeding glory grown.
This grief, outweighing,


Not even regretting,
It will await us! Thank God, not being sown
In any dishonor, it will await its own,
Never forgetting!


To Christ's protection
Now let us leave it, — the tomb and the key! He
Will remember us, if there may ever be