XLVI
22 lines✦
ring, in this timeless grave to throw,No cypress, sombre on the snow;Snap not from the bitter yewHis leaves that live December through;Break no rosemary, bright with rimeAnd sparkling to the cruel clime;Nor plod the winter land to lookFor willows in the icy brookTo cast them leafless round him: bringNo spray that ever buds in spring. But if the Christmas field has keptAwns the last gleaner overstept,Or shrivelled flax, whose flower is blueA single season, never two;Or if one haulm whose year is o'erShivers on the upland frore,-Oh, bring from hill and stream and plainWhatever will not flower again,To give him comfort: he and thoseShall bide eternal bedfellowsWhere low upon the couch he liesWhence he never shall arise.
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