PLACE this bunch of mignonette <br />In her cold, dead hand; <br />When the golden sun is set, <br />Where the poplars stand, <br />Bury her from sun and day, <br />Lay my little love away <br />From my sight. <br />She was like a modest flower <br />Blown in sunny June, <br />Warm as sun at noon's high hour, <br />Chaster than the moon. <br />Ah, her day was brief and bright, <br />Earth has lost a star of light; <br />She is dead. <br />Softly breathe her name to me,— <br />Ah, I loved her so. <br />Gentle let your tribute be; <br />None may better know <br />Her true worth than I who weep <br />O'er her as she lies asleep — <br />Soft asleep. <br />Lay these lilies on her breast, <br />They are not more white <br />Than the soul of her, at rest <br />'Neath their petals bright. <br />Chant your aves soft and low, <br />Solemn be your tread and slow, — <br />She is dead. <br />Lay her here beneath the grass, <br />Cool and green and sweet, <br />Where the gentle brook may pass <br />Crooning at her feet. <br />Nature's bards shall come and sing, <br />And the fairest flowers shall spring <br />Where she lies. <br />Safe above the water's swirl, <br />She has crossed the bar; <br />Earth has lost a precious pearl, <br />Heaven has gained a star, <br />That shall ever sing and shine, <br />Till it quells this grief of mine <br />For my love.<br /><br />Paul Laurence Dunbar<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dirge-16/
