Hope new born one pleasant morn
         Died at even;
Hope dead lives nevermore,
         No, not in heaven.

If his shroud were but a cloud
         To weep itself away;
Or were he buried underground
        To sprout some day!
But dead and gone is dead and gone
         Vainly wept upon.

Nought we place above his face
         To mark the spot,
But it shows a barren place
         In our lot.