The green marsh-mallows
Are over him.
Along the shallows
The pale lights swim.
Wide air, washed grasses,
And waveless stream;
And over him passes
The drift of dream;—
The pearl-hue down
Of the poplar seed;
The elm-flower brown;
And the sway of the reed;
The blue moth, winged
With a flake of sky;
The bee, gold ringed;
And the dragon fly.
Lightly the rushes,
Lean to his breast;
A bird’s wing brushes
The place of his rest.
The far-flown swallow,
The gold-finch flame,—
They come, they follow
The paths he came.
‘Tis the land of No Care
Where now he lies,
Fulfilled the prayer
Of his weary eyes:
And while around him
The kind grass creeps,
Where peace hath found him
How sound he sleeps.
Well to his slumber
Attends the year:
Soft rains without number
Soft noons, blue clear,
With nights of balm,
And the dark, sweet hours
Brooding with calm,
Pregnant with flowers.
See how she speeds them,
Each childlike bloom,
And softly leads them
To tend his tomb!—
The white thorn nears
As the cowslip goes;
Then the iris appears;
And then, the rose.