BURIAL-SONG FOR SUMNER.

Now the last wreath of snow
That melts, in mist exhales
White aspiration, and our deep-voiced gales
In chorus chant the measured march of spring,
Whom griefs of life and death
Are burdening!
Slow, slow--
With half-held breath--
Tread slow, O mourners, that all men may know
What hero here lies low!

O music, sweep
From some deep cave, and bear
To us that gasp in this so meagre air
Sweet ministerings
And consolations of contorted sound,
With agonies profound
Of nobly warring and enduring chords
That lie, close-bound,
Unstirred as yet 'neath thy wide, wakening wings;
So that our hearts break not in broken words.
O music, that hast power
This darkness to devour
In vivid light; that from the dusk of grief
Canst cause to grow divergent flower and leaf,
And from death's darkest roots
Bring forth the fairest fruits;--
Come thou, to quicken this hour