All the heavy days are over;
Leave the body's coloured pride
Underneath the grass and clover,
With the feet laid side by side.
 
Bathed in flaming founts of duty; 
She'll not ask a haughty dress, 
Carry all that mournful beauty,
To the scented oaken press.
 
Did the kiss of Mother Mary,
Put the music in her face;
Yet she goes with footsteps wary
Full of earth's old timid grace.
 
'Mong the feet of angels seven 
What a dancer glimmering! 
All the heav'ns bow down to Heaven 
Flame to flame and wing to wing.