The dead never die,
They murmur, deep in the bone,
Coursing in the blood,
Touching the grass, the hills,
With immortal fingers.
A ring of trees, a hollow crown,
A hillside beneath the moon,
Stars string a diadem,
Wind pipes a symphony among the reeds,
To restless waves, rising with eternal tides.
Embers lie hidden beneath the green sod,
Burning slow but burning bright,
Like freedom and humanity,
Like all our dead, who will never die.