"Bury, oh dead, thy dead!" Hearken the call,
Christ bids us leave our dead and follow him;
What tho' the steps be feeble, and eyes dim
With tears that rise and burn, but may not fall?
Leave the unburied dead in. Death's great hall:
For Christ is waiting and the dead are dead;
We may not pause to smooth their burial bed,
We may not stay to spread their funeral pall.
Farewell, oh lovely dead, oh tender past!
Who liest with stone-cold brow and lips that miss
The passionate farewell and last long kiss.
Oh dead! shall this cold parting be the last?
In the dim future's promise may there be
No past, no present — knit in one for thee?