The trees are white with dust, that o'er their sleep
     Wave their broad curtains in the south wind's breath,
While underneath these leafy tents they keep
     The long, mysterious Exodus of Death.

And these sepulchral stones, so old and brown,
     That pave with level flags their burial place,
Seem like the tablets of the Law, thrown down
     And broken by Moses at the mountain's base.

The very names recorded here are strange,
     Of foreign accent, and of different climes;
Alvares and Rivera interchange
     With Abraham and Jacob of old times.

"Blessed be God, for he created death!"
     The mourners said, "and death is rest and peace";
Then added, in the certainty of faith,
     "And giveth life that nevermore shall cease."

Closed are the portals of their synagogue,
     No Psalms of David now the silence break,
No Rabbi reads the ancient Decalogue
     In the grand dialect the prophets spake.

Gone are the living, but the dead remain,
     And not neglected; for a hand unseen,
Scattering its bounty, like a summer rain,
     Still keeps their graves and their remembrance green.

How came they here? What burst of Christian hate,
     What persecution, merciless and blind,
Drove o'er the sea – that desert desolate –
     These Ishmaels and Hagars of mankind?

They lived in narrow streets and lanes obscure,
     Ghetto and Judenstrass, in murk and mire;
Taught in the school of patience to endure
     The life of anguish and the death of fire.

All their lives long, with the unleavened bread
     And bitter herbs of exile and its fears,
The wasting famine of the heart they fed,
     And slaked its thirst with Marah of their tears.

Anathema maranatha! was the cry
     That rang from town to town, from street to street:
At every gate the accursed Mordecai
     Was mocked and jeered, and spurned by Christian feet.

Pride and humiliation hand in hand
     Walked with them through the world where'er they went;
Trampled and beaten were they as the sand,
     And yet unshaken as the continent.

For in the background figures vague and vast
     Of patriarchs and of prophets rose sublime,
And all the great traditions of the past
     They saw reflected in the coming time.

And thus forever with reverted look
     The mystic volume of the world they read,
Spelling it backward, like a Hebrew book,
     Till life became a legend of the dead.