It must be sweet, O thou, my dead, to lie
With hands that folded are from every task,
Sealed with the seal of the great mystery, -
The lips that nothing answer, nothing ask;
The life-long struggle ended; ended quite
The weariness of patience and of pain;
And the eyes closed to open not again
On desolate dawn or dreariness of night.
It must be sweet to slumber and forget-
To have the poor tired heart so still, at last:
Done with all yearning, done with all regret;
Doubt, fear, hope, sorrow, all for ever past-
Past all the hours, or slow of wing or fleet-
It must be sweet, it must be very sweet!
