Lycidas What could they know, whose souls are of the woods, Who tread a silent way by moonlight floods, And hear the voices in the trees that sing, And feel the breeze that stirs when spirits wing. These things are nature’s speech, and yet remain, In silent tongues, unseen, they travel, train. They grasp at shadows of what we call real pain, And echo soft prayers that we renewed may gain.

So rest in peace, beloved, ‘neath the trees, Where rivers flow and whisper to the breeze, For in these groves, life weaves a gentle ground, To honor those who tread this sacred mound.

• John Milton