There's a garden, a vale
Where no nightingale sings,
And it nurtures the pale,
And the strangest of things,
For the folk are all drones
And the trees have no boughs
In the Valley of Bones.

There's a garden that blooms
With the tears of distress,
And the trees are the tombs
That will never grow less,
And the flowers are stones
That blossom and blanch
In the Valley of Bones.

There's garden that blooms
Where all bitter things cease;
A vale that assumes
All the beauties of Peace,
For no one atones,
And no one repents,
In the Valley of Bones.