Around the open grave a circle forms,
A young life lies in the shrine;
There is not one eye that, burning hotly,
Does not weep the bright tears of parting!

And one from out of the dense throng
Suddenly stoops hastily to the ground,
A strong man with dark hair,
Deep woe in his demeanour.

For what does his hand scrabble in the damp mould
With such a trembling yearning?
It must be a rich find of gold
Upon which his eyes are greedily fastened? --

He picks up a worthless little ring
From the ashes of the dead with a deep sigh,
-- Two great tears fall upon it --
And stows it carefully in his pocket.

And to his neighbour, who has mutely turned
His gaze upon him, he whispers,
"Here -- it is thirty years ago --
My mother was lowered into the earth!"