Where beams the sun the brightest
⁠In the hours of sweet July?
Where falls the snow the lightest
⁠From bleak December's sky?

Where can the weary lay his head,
⁠And lay it soft the while;
In a grave that never shuts its dead
⁠From heaven's benignant smile?

Upon the earth is sunlight;
⁠Spring grass grows green and fair;
But beneath the earth is midnight—
⁠Eternal midnight there.

Then why lament that those we love
⁠Escape earth's dungeon tomb?
As if the flowers that blow above
⁠Could charm its undergloom.

From morning's faintest dawning
⁠Till evening's deepest shade,
Thou wilt not cease thy mourning
⁠To know where she is laid.