 | Collected poems of Henry Thoreau |  |
211
THE FUNERAL BELL
One more is gone
Out of the busy throng
That tread these paths;
The church bell tolls,
Its sad knell rolls
To many hearths.
Out of the busy throng
That tread these paths;
The church bell tolls,
Its sad knell rolls
To many hearths.
Flower bells toll not,
Their echoes roll not
Unto my ear;—
There still perchance,
That gentle spirit haunts
A fragrant bier.
Their echoes roll not
Unto my ear;—
There still perchance,
That gentle spirit haunts
A fragrant bier.
Low lies the pall,
Lowly the mourners all
Their passage grope;—
No sable hue
Mars the serene blue
Of heaven's cope.
Lowly the mourners all
Their passage grope;—
No sable hue
Mars the serene blue
Of heaven's cope.
In distant dell
Faint sounds the funeral bell,
A heavenly chime;
Some poet there
Weaves the light burthened air
Into sweet rhyme.
Faint sounds the funeral bell,
A heavenly chime;
Some poet there
Weaves the light burthened air
Into sweet rhyme.
| Collected poems of Henry Thoreau | |