I cannot rest, I cannot rest
In straight 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 pompous dead!