Classic Poem

The oak-trees whisper softly, and softly to me they say:
" Come, hide beneath our shadow, O Mortal, there decay!
This tomb, this heap of dust to thy pain and livelong grief —
Faithful to thee for ever — they will bring relief.
Die not so oft, for life with a thousand deaths is filled,
Die once, expire for ever, — rest peaceful and be stilled!
We'll dig thee softly over, smooth out the silent grave;
Thy half shall worms consume, but a half for sap we crave,
For by aid of all we thrive. Life endless shall be thine,
To blossom forth a flower, or be woven in a vine.
To live in all that liveth wherever thou wilt be,
So come beneath us, come, the flesh and blood of thee! "
Softly the oak-trees whispered, and thus they made their plea,
While the tombs stood dumb around and silently pitied me