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and more fragrant, and thus appropriated it to the dead; 
and surely its timid beauty and delicate odour render 
it worthy of this mournful distinction. 
Nay, take that gorgeous rose away, 
And this bright flaunting wreath ; 
’Twould seem like mockery to array 
With buds so joyous and so gay 
The brow of death. 
Yet would I that a flower or two 
Were shedding fragrance here, 
Funereal rosemary and rue — 
These would not mock with dazzling hue 
My silent tear. 
And just one violet you may bring 
To deck the sleeping dust; 
From winter’s sleep awakening, 
’Twill whisper of that brighter spring 
Which waits the just. 
Come, then, sweet flowers, and, while the knell 
Says, “ Dust with dust must lie 
To check the agonised farewell, 
Do ye of sweet re-union tell, 
Beyond the sky. 
