YOUNG girls wear flowers, Young brides a flowery wreath, But next we plant them In garden plots of death. Whose lot is best -- The maiden's curtained rest, Or bride's whose hoped-for sweet May yet outstrip her feet? Ah what are such as these To death's sufficing ease? He sleeps indeed who sleeps in peace Where night and morning meet. Dear are the blossoms For bride's or maiden's head, But dearer planted Around our blessed dead. Those mind us of decay And joys that fade away; These preach to us perfection, Long love and resurrection. We make our graveyards fair, For spirit-like birds of air, For Angels may be finding there Lost Eden's own delection. |