I cannot rest, I cannot rest br In straight and shiny wood, br My woven hands upon my breast-- br The dead are all so good! br br The earth is cool across their eyes; br They lie there quietly. br But I am neither old nor wise; br They do not welcome me. br br Where never I walked alone before, br I wander in the weeds; br And people scream and bar the door, br And rattle at their beads.