Make it where the winds may sweep 
Through the pine boughs soft and deep, 
And the murmur of the sea 
Come across the orient lea, 
And the falling raindrops sing 
Gently to his slumbering. 

Make it where the meadows wide 
Greenly lie on every side, 
Harvest fields he reaped and trod, 
Westering slopes of clover sod, 
Orchard lands where bloom and blow 
Trees he planted long ago. 

Make it where the starshine dim 
May be always close to him, 
And the sunrise glory spread 
Lavishly around his bed. 
And the dewy grasses creep 
Tenderly above his sleep. 

Since these things to him were dear 
Through full many a well-spent year, 
It is surely meet their grace 
Should be on his resting-place, 
And the murmur of the sea 
Be his dirge eternally.