Here, in the silent churchyard, 'mid a thousand dead, alone,
Weary I sit for a moment clasping this cross of stone,
Weary of worldly passions of selfishness, greed, and sin.
Grant me the shade of thy wings, O Death, for I would rest within,
Weary of smiling faces when the heart is like to break,
Of lips that are too silent when they long the while to speak,
Of tears that fall from eyes too young, of quivering lips that laugh,
Of the ceaseless clatter of tongues, who plead in none save their own behalf.
O desolate grave beside me, by pity and love forgot,
The calm eyes of peace watch o'er you—I hunger for such a spot;
The tender sprays of ivy, that clung to your cross alone,
Have died in the spring of their living, and turned like it to stone;

So trusting, believing, and loving, these foolish dreams of a child,
I dreamt of the joy of living in a world so undefiled.
Ah! blighted my hope's young promise by that same cold world's breath.
I am weary; grant me the shade of thy wings, that I may rest, O Death!
Weave wreaths of Truth's fair blossoms for my home when my lips are mute.
I gathered its rosy apples and found them but Dead Sea fruit,
And take from the world's garden my flowers that Hope planted there,
That, turning to weeds in their growing, were culled by the hand of Despair.
Weary of worldly sorrows, of longings unfilled and regret,
Grant me the shade of your wings, O Peace! that I may sleep and forget.