Classic Poem

Wherefore this bitter aching of the heart
When our beloved depart,
To whom our souls have grown through years and years
Of toil and tears?

Why weep for those who happily forget
Life's tedious wear and fret,
Who lay aside, with joy, the loads of ill
Which cramp us still?

Wash not, O tears, these white and quiet feet
Which, clean from dust and heart,
Shall climb, through all the round of coming days,
No more rough ways.

Lave not, O tears, these calmly folded hands
Slipped from their fettering bands,
Which, whether want would pinch or wrong despoil,
Know no more toil.

Fall not, O tears, above the pulseless heart
Forgetful of its smart,
Which shall forever, while the slow years wane,
Know no more pain.

Drop not upon this fair and peaceful face
Pure from all earthly trace,
Which shall, through all the cycles of the years,
Know no more tears.

For ah, it matters not how much we claim
Of wealth and love and fame;
What boon at last so dear to mortal breast
As this, — of rest?