Where Harold Sleeps

WHERE Harold sleeps the night is blest.In the Great Mother's easeful breastHe lies the brave and sweet amongWho, loved by the wise gods, die young—The goal achieved without the quest.

Though winds of Autumn from the WestMay rudely rock the unsheltered nest,Yet shall all joys of Spring be sungWhere Harold sleeps;

And we, our human griefs confessed,We, too, by a dear hope caressed—Death's hope illimitable, sprungFrom nothing that to earth hath clung—Shall, waiting a new dawn, find restWhere Harold sleeps!