No more for him, where hills look down,
Shall Morning crown
Her rainy brow with blossom bands!—
Whose rosy hands
Drop wild flowers of the breaking skies
Upon the sod‘ neath which he lies.—
No more! no more!
No more for him where waters sleep,
Shall Evening heap
The long gold of the perfect days!
Whose pale hand lays
Great poppies of the afterglow
Upon the turf he rests below.—
No more! no more!
No more for him, where woodlands loom,
Shall Midnight bloom
The star-flow'red acres of the blue!
Whose brown hands strew
Dead leaves of darkness, hushed and deep,
Upon the grave where he doth sleep.—
No more! no more!
The hills that Morning's footsteps wake;
The waves that take
A brightness from the Eve; the woods
O'er which Night broods,
Their spirits have, whose parts are one
With his whose mortal part is done.
Whose part is done!