Some are laughing, some are weeping;She is sleeping, only sleeping.Round her rest wild flowers are creeping;There the wind is heaping, heapingSweetest sweets of Summer's keeping.By the corn-fields ripe for reaping.
There are lilies, and there blushesThe deep rose, and there the thrushesSing till latest sunlight flushesIn the west; a fresh wind brushesThrough the leaves while evening hushes.
There by day the lark is singingAnd the grass and weeds are springing;There by night the bat is winging;There for ever winds are bringingFar-off chimes of church-bells ringing.
Night and morning, noon and even,Their sound fills her dreams with Heaven:The long strife at lent is striven:Till her grave-bands shall be rivenSuch is the good portion givenTo her soul at rest and shriven.