Classic Poem

The dead work for our good with love beyond
The love they here attained:
Their spirits bid our spirits not despond;
They bid us climb the hill-tops they have gained.

They, could they speak to us, would evermore
Forbid our souls to weep:
They would command our hearts and thoughts to soar;
They would awaken us from hopeless sleep.

They, who have ever helped, know better now
What high gifts to bestow:
They breathe repose upon the weary brow;
At night their solemn whispers come and go.

And they are with us in the summer days;
They speak in our still hours:
Though wondrous scenes are bursting on their gaze
They never can forget earth's simple flowers.

Our hyacinths still bloom within their hearts;
Our snowdrops still are white:
And still our various-blossomed June imparts
Joy to their day and fragrance to their night.

They rest. But this their rest—to love us more,
To guard us till we meet:
The hearts whose loss our faithless souls deplore
Were never quite so close, nor half so sweet.