Build him no mockery of stone,
    Nor shame him with your idle praise;
He liveth in his work alone
        Through all our days.
Sleep, heart of gold, ’twas not in vain
    You loved the struggling and the poor
And taught in sweet yet strenuous strain
        To battle and endure.

The lust of wealth, the pride of place,
    Were not a light to guide thy feet,
But larger hopes and wider space
        For hearts to beat.
O, brother, dead! Thus, one by one,
    Our broken swords remain to tell
The fight is o’er, the work is done,
        Sleep! “It is well.”