WHERE Harold sleeps the night is blest.
In the Great Mother's easeful breast
He lies the brave and sweet among
Who, loved by the wise gods, die young—
The goal achieved without the quest.
Though winds of Autumn from the West
May rudely rock the unsheltered nest,
Yet shall all joys of Spring be sung
Where Harold sleeps;
And we, our human griefs confessed,
We, too, by a dear hope caressed—
Death's hope illimitable, sprung
From nothing that to earth hath clung—
Shall, waiting a new dawn, find rest
Where Harold sleeps!