Burial Songs
(1)
How swiftly it dries,
The dew on the garlic-leaf!
The dew that dries so fast
To-morrow will fall again.
But he whom we carry to the grave
Will never more return.
(2)
What man's land is the graveyard?
It is the crowded home of ghosts, —
Wise and foolish shoulder to shoulder.
The King of the Dead claims them all;
Man's fate knows no tarrying.
How swiftly it dries,
The dew on the garlic-leaf!
The dew that dries so fast
To-morrow will fall again.
But he whom we carry to the grave
Will never more return.
(2)
What man's land is the graveyard?
It is the crowded home of ghosts, —
Wise and foolish shoulder to shoulder.
The King of the Dead claims them all;
Man's fate knows no tarrying.
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