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THE BURIAL OF SOPHOCLES

That makest dead men understand, The very dead in graves rejoice:Whose utterance, writ in ancient books,Shall always live, for him that looks.
Many as leaves from autumn trees The years shall flutter from on high,And with their multiple decease The souls of men shall fall and die,Yet, while the empires turn to dust,You shall live on, because you must.
O seven times happy he that dies After the splendid harvest-tide,When strong barns shield from winter skies The grain that's rightly stored inside:There death shall scatter no more tearsThan o'er the falling of the years:
Aye, happy seven times is he Who enters not the silent doorsBefore his time, but tenderly Death beckons unto him, becauseThere's rest within for weary feetNow all the journey is complete.

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