No more can mortal ear rejoice
In the soft music of her voice;
No wistful eye, through tears of woe,
Can pierce down through the heavy clay,
In the God's-acre far away,
Where she, O God! lies cold below,--
Cold, cold below.

A star shines, sudden, from the sky--
God's angel cometh, pure and bright,
Making a radiance through the night,
Unto the place where, mute, I lie,
Gazing up in rapt devotion,
Shaken by a deep emotion;
And my thoughts no longer go
Wandering o'er the plashy clay,
In the God's-acre far away,
Where she, O God! _lay_ cold below--
Cold, cold below!

God's angel! ah I divinely bright!
But still the olden grace is there--
The soft brown eyes--the raven hair--
The gentle smile of calm delight,
That could such peace and joy impart--
The veil is rent from off my heart,
And gazing upward, well I know
The rain may beat upon the clay
In the God's-acre far away;
But she no longer lies below,