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| THEY gather, with the summer in their hands, | |
| The summer from their distant valleys bringing; | |
| They gather round the church in pious bands, | |
| With funeral array, and solemn singing. | |
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| The dead are their companions; many days | 5 |
| Have passed since they were laid to their last slumber; | |
| And in the hurry of life’s crowded ways | |
| Small space has been for memory to cumber. | |
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| But now the past comes back again, and death | |
| Asketh its mournful tribute of the living; | 10 |
| And memories that were garnered at the heart, | |
| The treasures kept from busier hours are giving. | |
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| The mother kneeleth at a little tomb | |
| And sees one sweet face shining from beneath it; | |
| She has brought all the early flowers that bloom | 15 |
| In the small garden round their home to wreathe it. | |
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| Friend thinks on friend; and youth comes back again | |
| To that one moment of awakened feeling; | |
| And prayers, such prayers as never rise in vain, | |
| Call down the Heaven to which they are appealing. | 20 |
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| It is a superstitious rite and old, | |
| Yet having with all higher things connection; | |
| Prayers, tears, redeem a world so harsh and cold, | |
| The future has its hope, the past its deep affection. | |
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