Down the dark road, seeking the deathless dead,
Thy faithful, fearless, shining soul hath passed.

Fame blows his silver trumpet o'er thy sleep,
And Love stands broken by thy lonely lyre;
So pure the fire God gave this clay to keep,
The clay must still seem holy for the fire.

Poor dupes of sense, we deem the close-shut eye,
So faithful servant of his golden tongue,
Still holds the hoarded lights of earth and sky,
We deem the mouth still full of sleeping song.

We mourn as though the great good song he gave
Passed with the singer's own informing breath:
Ah, golden book, for thee there is no grave,
Thine is a rhyme that shall not taste of death.

Great wife of his great heart--'tis yours to mourn,
Son well-beloved, 'tis yours, who loved him so:
But we!--hath death one perfect page out-torn
From the great song whereby alone we know

The splendid spirit imperiously shy,--
Husband to you and father--we afar
Hail poet of God, and name as one should cry:
'Yonder a king, and yonder lo! a star!'

So great his song we deem a little while
That Song itself with his great voice hath fled,