Poetry Archives

I cannot rest, I cannot rest
  In straight and shiny wood,
My woven hands upon my breast—
  The dead are all so good!

The earth is cool across their eyes;
  They lie there quietly.
But I am neither old nor wise;
  They do not welcome me.

Where never I walked alone before,
  I wander in the weeds;
And people scream and bar the door,
  And rattle at their beads.

We cannot rest, we never rest
  Within a narrow bed
Who still must love the living best—
  Who hate the pompous dead!