Classic Poem

I WALK within a graveyard wide,
A sun-swept land upon a hill,
Where, for a hundred years, Life's tide,
Hath borne across the dark divide
Of death, her good and ill.

And all about me, side by side,
Divided hearts, divided still,
In sleep, the dreamless dead abide.

'Tis strange!—and yet, more strange to me
It seems, that we who live the while
Should guess what that dull sleep shall be,
And guessing—still have heart to smile.

Poor man! what fate can equal his:
His laughter is more sad than tears,
His hopes more wound him than his fears:
His Life more sad than dying is.