I dream with the dreamers beneath the sod, Where souls pass by to the great white throne; I count each tomb as a mute milestone For weary, sweet souls on their way to God. I sit all day by the vast, strong stream, 'Mid low white slabs in the long strong grass Where Time has forgotten for aye to pass, To dream, and ever to dream and to dream. This quaint old church with its dead to the door, By the cypress swamp at the edge of the town, So restful seems that you want to sit down And rest you, and rest you for evermore. And one white tomb is a lowliest tomb, That has crept up close to the crumbling door,-- Some penitent soul, as imploring room Close under the cross that is leaning o'er. 'Tis a low white slab, and 'tis nameless, too-- Her untold story, why, who should know? Yet God, I reckon, can read right through That nameless stone to the bosom below. And the roses know, and they pity her, too; They bend their heads in the sun or rain, And they read, and they read, and then read again, As children reading strange pictures through. Why, surely her sleep it should be profound; For oh the apples of gold above! And oh the blossoms of bridal love! And oh the roses that gather around! The sleep of a night, or a thousand morns? Why what is the difference here, to-day? Sleeping and sleeping the years away With all earth's roses, and none of its thorns. Magnolias white and the roses red-- The palm-tree here and the cypress there: Sit down by the palm at the feet of the dead, And hear a penitent's midnight prayer. II. The old churchyard is still as death, A stranger passes to and fro As if to church--he does not go-- The dead night does not draw a breath. A lone sweet lady prays within. The stranger passes by the door-- Will he not pray? Is he so poor He has no prayer for his sin? Is he so poor! His two strong hands Are full and heavy, as with gold; They clasp, as clasp two iron bands About two bags with eager hold. Will he not pause and enter in, Put down his heavy load and rest, Put off his garmenting of sin, As some black burden from his breast? Ah, me! the brave alone can pray. The church-door is as cannon's mouth To sinner North, or sinner South, More dreaded than dread battle day. Now two men pace. They pace apart, And one with youth and truth is fair; The fervid sun is in his heart, The tawny South is in his hair. Ay, two men pace, pace left and right-- The lone, sweet lady prays within-- Ay, two men pace: the silent night Kneels down in prayer for some sin. Lo! two men pace; and one is gray, A blue-eyed man from snow-clad land, With something heavy in each hand,-- With heavy feet, as feet of clay.