Mourn that which will not come again, <br />The joy, the strength of early years. <br />Bow down thy head, and let thy tears <br />Water the grave where hope lies slain. <br /> <br />For tears are like a summer rain, <br />To murmur in a mourner's ears, <br />To soften all the field of fears, <br />To moisten valleys parched with pain. <br /> <br />And though thy tears will not awake <br />What lies beneath of young or fair <br />And sleeps so sound it draws no breath, <br />Yet, watered thus, the sod may break <br />In flowers which sweeten all the air, <br />And fill with life the place of death.<br /><br />Robert Fuller Murray<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/tears-12/
