How still they sleep within the city moil
In their old church-yard with its sighing trees,
Where sometimes through the din a twilight breeze
Makes one forget the busy streets of toil;
But they have little thought of worldly spoil
Or the great gain of mortal victories,
Their hopes, their dreams, are cold and dead as these
Quaint, time-worn gravestones crumbling on the soil.
Yet they once lived and struggled years ago;
Their hearts beat madly as these hearts of ours —
And now is all undone in dreamless rest?
See, a great city stands against the glow —
Their city, they who here beneath the flowers
Have known so long God's gift of peace, most blest!