The Grave

O the grave is a quiet place, my dear, So still and so quiet by night and by day, Reached by no sound either joyous or drear, But keeping its silence alway, alway. O the grave is a restful place, my dear, Unvext by the weightiest loss or gain, All the undone work of the speeding year May beat at its portals in vain, in vain. O the grave is a tender place, my dear, The Love immortal, the faith, the trust, The grace and the beauty, lie buried there, So pure and so white in a robe of dust. O the grave is a home-like place, my dear, Where we all do gather when day is done, Where the earth mother folds us close and near, And the latch string waits for the laggard one.