How lonely on the hillside look the graves!
The summer green no longer o'er them waves;
No more, among the frosted boughs, are heard
The mournful whippoorwill or singing bird.
The rosebush, planted with such tearful care,
Stands in the winter sunshine stiff and bare;
Save here and there its lingering berries red
Make the cold sunbeams warm above the dead.
Through all the pines, and through the tall, dry grass,
The fitful breezes with a shiver pass,
While o'er the autumn's lately flowering weeds
The snow-birds flit and peck the shelling seeds.
Because those graves look lonely, bleak, and bare,
Because they are not, as in summer, fair,
O, turn from comforts, cheery friends, and home,
And mid their solemn desolation roam!
On each brown turf some fresh memorial lay;
O'er each dear hillock's dust a moment stay,
To breathe a "Rest in Peace," for those who lie
On lonely hillsides 'neath a winter sky.
