Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916.
From To J. S.Alfred, Lord Tennyson (18091892)
W
Grief more. ’Twere better I should cease;
Although myself could almost take
The place of him that sleeps in peace.
Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul,
While the stars burn, the moons increase,
And the great ages onward roll.
Nothing comes to thee new or strange.
Sleep full of rest from head to feet;
Lie still, dry dust, secure of change.