Classic Poem

Glisten the marbles tall,
Blossoms the sweet white rose.
When will God's angel call
The dead from their long repose?
Morning climbs in the sky,
Thrushes are building nigh;
Silent the sleepers lie
Under the bloom and snows.

Earthward the marbles fall,
Withers the sweet white rose.
When will God's angel call
The dead from their long repose?
Suns dip low in the west,
Thrushes forsake their nest;
Silent the sleepers rest
Under the bloom and snows.