Not in the ancient abbey, <br />Nor in the city ground, <br />Not in the lonely mountains, <br />Nor in the blue profound, <br />Lay him to rest when his time is come <br />And the smiling mortal lips are dumb; <br /> <br />But here in the decent quiet <br />Under the whispering pines, <br />Where the dogwood breaks in blossom <br />And the peaceful sunlight shines, <br />Where wild birds sing and ferns unfold, <br />When spring comes back in her green and gold. <br /> <br />And when that mortal likeness <br />Has been dissolved by fire, <br />Say not above the ashes, <br />'Here ends a man's desire.' <br />For every year when the bluebirds sing, <br />He shall be part of the lyric spring. <br /> <br />Then dreamful-hearted lovers <br />Shall hear in wind and rain <br />The cadence of his music, <br />The rhythm of his refrain, <br />For he was a blade of the April sod <br />That bowed and blew with the whisper of God.<br /><br />Bliss William Carman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/threnody-for-a-poet/
