Home

 


Poetry of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Translations

THE DEAD

BY ERNST STOCKMANN

   How they so softly rest,
   All they the holy ones,
   Unto whose dwelling-place
   Now doth my soul draw near!
   How they so softly rest,
   All in their silent graves,
   Deep to corruption
   Slowly don-sinking!

   And they no longer weep,
   Here, where complaint is still!
   And they no longer feel,
   Here, where all gladness flies!
   And, by the cypresses
   Softly o'ershadowed
   Until the Angel
   Calls them, they slumber!