Sonnet Xxv. The Funeral.

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