Slowly and softly let the music go, <br />As ye wind upwards to the gray church--tower; <br />Check the shrill hautboy, let the pipe breathe low; <br />Tread lightly on the pathside daisy flower. <br />For she ye carry was a gentle bud, <br />Loved by the unsunned drops of silver dew; <br />Her voice was like the whisper of the wood <br />In prime of even, when the stars are few. <br />Lay her all gently in the sacred mould, <br />Weep with her one brief hour; then turn away,-- <br />Go to hope's prison,--and from out the cold <br />And solitary gratings many a day <br />Look forth: 'tis said the world is growing old, <br />And streaks of orient light in Time's horizon play.<br /><br />Henry Alford<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-xxv-the-funeral/
