I cannot rest, I cannot rest 
   In strait and shiny wood, 
My woven hands upon my breast—
   The dead are all so good! 

The earth is cool across their eyes; 
    They lie there quietly. 
But I am neither old nor wise, 
    They do not welcome me. 

Where never I walked alone before
   I wander in the weeds; 
And people scream and bar the door, 
   And rattle at their beads. 

We cannot rest, we never rest
   Within a narrow bed
Who still must love the living best—
    Who hate the drowsy dead!