The winds of the summer, they blow, they blow,
And the sibilant pines, they sing;
And the men and women they sleep below,
And death is their silent king.

Soft on the green of the grass-grown aisle,
The angels in silence tread;
And often they lovingly linger awhile,
By the graves of the blessed dead.

They bend by the lowly and shadowed mound,
Where no one comes to weep;
Where, friendless within their neglected ground,
The unremembered sleep.

They pause by the shaft of glistening stone,
Which towers against the sky,
When it tells of some noble deed which shone
In the light of a day gone by.

The sweet rain falls on the nodding grass,
And smites on the bended flower,
But the sleepers care not for the clouds that pass,
Nor the charm of beauty's power.

They know no thrill when the storm-god's frown
Grows black in the sultry skies;
They feel no pang when the sun goes down,
They feel no joy at his rise.

The mellowing disk of the harvest moon
Will rise through the far-off trees,
And the breath of the grain fields, reaped at noon,
Will burthen the wearied breeze;

But the brooding hush of the day's repose
Will wake no trembling sigh;
There burns no hope in the breasts of those,
The fount of their tears is dry.