Some are laughing, some are weeping; She is sleeping, only sleeping. Round her rest wild flowers are creeping; There the wind is heaping, heaping Sweetest sweets of Summer's keeping. By the corn-fields ripe for reaping.
There are lilies, and there blushes The deep rose, and there the thrushes Sing till latest sunlight flushes In the west; a fresh wind brushes Through the leaves while evening hushes.
There by day the lark is singing And the grass and weeds are springing; There by night the bat is winging; There for ever winds are bringing Far-off chimes of church-bells ringing.
Night and morning, noon and even, Their sound fills her dreams with Heaven: The long strife at lent is striven: Till her grave-bands shall be riven Such is the good portion given To her soul at rest and shriven.