by William Cullen Bryant
Aythou art for the grave; thy glances shine
Too brightly to shine long; another Spring
Shall deck her for men's eyes- but not for thine-
Sealed in a sleep which knows no wakening.
The fields for thee have no medicinal leaf
And the vexed ore no mineral of power;
And they who love thee wait in anxious grief
Till the slow plague shall bring the fatal hour.
Glide softly to thy rest then; Death should come
Gentlyto one of gentle mould like thee
As light winds wandering through groves of bloom
Detach the delicate blossom from the tree.
Close thy sweet eyescalmlyand without pain;
And we will trust in God to see thee yet again. - -