Beneath the still November sky,
With Nature's peace and beauty blest,
We put our selfish sorrow by,
And laid our comrade down to rest.

Rest, — in the morning of his days!
Rest, — when his heart had just begun
To feel the warmth of rip'ning praise,
The radiance of the rising sun!

Rest, — to a strong and stately mind,
That rose all common flights above!
Rest, — to a heart as true and kind
As ever glowed with human love!

And round him, dimly, through our grief
In every natural sound we heard, —
In whispering grass, and rustling leaf,
And sighing wind, — the same sweet word:

Rest! And we did not break the spell
By holy Nature woven round
The fading form we left to dwell
Forever in her hallowed ground.

No hymns were sung, no prayers were said,
Save what our loving hearts could say,
When, mutely gazing on the dead,
We blessed him ere we turned away:

Back to the round of daily care,
That seems so vacant to us now,
Remembering what repose was there,
What peace, upon his marble brow.

And so we left him, — nevermore
To see, in sunshine or in rain,
The semblance of the form he wore
Whose loss has steeped our souls in pain.

But, long as skies of autumn smile,
And long as clouds of autumn weep,
Or autumn leaves their splendors pile
In sorrow o'er their poet's sleep;

And long as violets grace the spring,
Or June-born roses blush and blow,
Or pale stars shine, or south winds sing,
Or tides of summer ebb and flow;

So long shall live their poet's name,
When rest these broken hearts of ours, —
Embalmed in love, surpassing fame,
With stars, and leaves, and clouds, and flowers!