'Tis well; 'tis something; we may stand
      Where he in English earth is laid,
      And from his ashes may be made
The violet of his native land.

'Tis little; but it looks in truth
      As if the quiet bones were blest
      Among familiar names to rest
And in the places of his youth.

Come then, pure hands, and bear the head
      That sleeps or wears the mask of sleep,
      And come, whatever loves to weep,
And hear the ritual of the dead.

Ah yet, ev'n yet, if this might be,
      I, falling on his faithful heart,
      Would breathing thro' his lips impart
The life that almost dies in me;

That dies not, but endures with pain,
      And slowly forms the firmer mind,
      Treasuring the look it cannot find,
The words that are not heard again.

Last modified 14 February 2010