Our floral forget-me-nots blossom and die,
When the winds of the autumn sweep chillingly by;
But the heart’s bright forget-me-nots never shall fade
When under the white drifts our loved ones are laid;
And the days, as they fly o’er the dial of time,
Are bringing us nearer to that brighter clime
Where we shall again our lost loved ones embrace
And the glories of home shall earth’s sorrows efface.

We weave from fair blossoms a cross and a crown,
And on the cold coffin we lay them both down;
’Tis all we can do; we’ll adorn the fair clay
Ere under the white drifts we lay it away.
But the days, as they fly o’er the dial of time.
Are bringing us nearer to that brighter clime
Where the crowns are not leaves that must wither and mold.
But they sparkle with jewels and glisten with gold.

We sing our sweet hymns round the slumbering clay
Ere under the white drifts we lay it away;
And we lift our dim eyes to the kingdom above,
Unto Him who chastiseth us only in love.
O! the days, as they fly o’er the dial of time.
Are bringing us nearer to that brighter clime
Where the songs of the blest with the sainted we’ll sing
At the feet of our Prophet, our Priest, and our King.

We bury the dead we so love from our sight,
While a star beameth forth from the depths of our night;
It comforts the heart, and dispelleth the gloom.
As we follow the dead to the rest of the tomb,
O! the days, as they fly o’er the dial of time,
Are bringing us nearer to that brighter clime
Where the King in His beauty, the Bethlehem Star,
Shall cheer us forever in kingdoms afar.

John Henry Yates
Ballads and Poems, 1897