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THE CITY
By Richard Burton
They do neither plight nor wed
In the city of the dead,
In the city where they sleep away the hours;
But they lie, while o'er them range
Winter-blight and summer change,
And a hundred happy whisperings of flowers,
No, they neither wed nor plight,
And the day is like the night,
For their vision is of other kind than ours.
They do neither sing nor sigh,
In that burgh of by and by
Where the streets have grasses growing cool and long;
But they rest within their bed,
Leaving all their thoughts unsaid,
Deeming silence better far than sob or song,
No, they neither sigh nor sing,
Though the robin be a-wing,
Though the leaves of autumn march a million strong.
There is only rest and peace
In the City of Surcease
From the failings and the wailings 'neath the sun,
And the wings of the swift years
Beat but gently o'er the biers,
Making music to the sleepers every one,
There is only peace and rest;
But to them it seemeth best,
For they lie at ease and know that life is done.
