In the garden of death, where the singers whose names are deathless

⁠One with another make music unheard of men,
Where the dead sweet roses fade not of lips long breathless,
⁠And the fair eyes shine that shall weep not or change again,
Who comes now crowned with the blossom of snow-white years?
What music is this that the world of the dead men hears?

Beloved of men, whose words on our lips were honey,

⁠Whose name in our ears and our fathers' ears was sweet,