Classic Poem

Now lays the king his crown and sceptre down,
Her gown of taffeta the lovely bride,
The knight his sword, his cap and bells the clown,
The poet all his verse's pomp and pride—
The eloquent, the beautiful, the brave
Descend reluctant to the straight, cold grave.

No more shall shine for them the glorious rose,
Or sunsets stain with red and awful gold,
Night shall no more for them her stars disclose,
Or day the grandeur of the Downs unfold,
Or those eyes dull in death watch solemnly
The regal splendour of the Sussex sea.

For them the ringing surges are in vain;
They wake not at the cry of waking bird;
The sun, the holy hill, the fruitful rain,
The winds have called them and they have not stirred;
The woods are widowed of your eager tread,
O dear and desolate and dungeoned dead!

Yet you shall rest awhile in English earth,
And ripen many a pleasant English field
Through the green Summer to the Autumn's mirth
And flower unconsciously upon the weald—
Until that last angelic word be said,
And the shut graves deliver up their dead!