XLVI

Bring, in this timeless grave to throw,

No cypress, sombre on the snow;

Snap not from the bitter yew

His leaves that live December through;

Break no rosemary, bright with rime

And sparkling to the cruel clime;

Nor plod the winter land to look

For willows in the icy brook

To cast them leafless round him: bring

No spray that ever buds in spring.

But if the Christmas field has kept

Awns the last gleaner overstept,

Or shrivelled flax, whose flower is blue

A single season, never two;

Or if one haulm whose year is o'er

Shivers on the upland frore,

-Oh, bring from hill and stream and plain

Whatever will not flower again,

To give him comfort: he and those

Shall bide eternal bedfellows

Where low upon the couch he lies

Whence he never shall arise.