Page:Poems Angier.djvu/76

Now the glad Harvest Home is sung,
For they are bound the sheaves among;
  They have passed on—
    Our holy dead.

Oh! they soothed like the south-wind,
 They sung like the bird.
Like the wave's gentle murmur
 Their voices were heard;
They were ripe like the grain,
Then thy sorrow restrain;
For to them with the wheat a place hath been given,
And they are now safe in the garner of heaven;
  They have passed on—
    Our holy dead.

Since death's dark shadow flings
 Its pall o'er human love,
Who doth not sigh for wings,
 For wings to soar above?
Who doth not long to go?
For none true bliss can know,
Till of them it is said,
As of our holy dead—
  They have passed on
    Our holy dead.