Round the passionless repose

Of the silent dead.

 Plod, plod, plod away, Step by step in mouldering moss; Thick branches bar the day Over languid streams that cross Softly, slowly, with a sound Like a smothered weeping, In their aimless creeping Through enchanted ground.

Plod, plod, plod away,

Step by step in mouldering moss;

Thick branches bar the day

Over languid streams that cross

Softly, slowly, with a sound

Like a smothered weeping,

In their aimless creeping

Through enchanted ground.

 “Yield, yield, yield thy quest,” Whispers through the woodland deep; “Come to me and be at rest; I am slumber, I am sleep.” Then the weary feet would fail, But the never-daunted will Urges “Forward, forward still! Press along the trail!”

“Yield, yield, yield thy quest,”

Whispers through the woodland deep;

“Come to me and be at rest;

I am slumber, I am sleep.”

Then the weary feet would fail,

But the never-daunted will

Urges “Forward, forward still!

Press along the trail!”

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