They lie at rest, our blessed dead;
The dews drop cool above their head,
They knew not when fleet summer fled.
Together all, yet each alone;
Each laid at rest beneath his own
Smooth turf or white allotted stone.
When shall our slumber sink so deep,
And eyes that wept and eyes that weep
Weep not in the sufficient sleep?
God be with you, our great and small,
Our loves, our best beloved of all,
Our own beyond the salt sea-wall.