Grieve no more for the silent dead;
They have fled from the earth--
Yea, have fled!
Nay, never grieve more.
All our crystal and golden lore,
What does it boot to grief or mirth?
These but leaves of the autumn are,
Gone far from our ken--
Yea, gone far!
Past, and too soon forgot:
Dry thy tears and grieve thou not,
Think no more upon troubled men.
1912.