Make the light subdued and sweet,

The last accent that she utters

I’ll record here at her feet.

See, the pulses quiver faintly,

But her heart, alas! ’tis still;

See how pale she lies and saintly,

Feel her hands, they’re white and chill.

Close the eyes made sad from weeping,

Smooth the tangles from her head,

Leave her like an angel sleeping,

Friends are here to view the dead.

See, the rose a tear is dropping

As she leans above her face,

At the door the lily stopping,

Finds her handkerchief of lace.

There the two like sisters sorrow,

As above the corse they bend,

Planning for the sad to-morrow—

For the burial of a friend.

Then the daisy from the mountain,

That in mourning shawl was dressed,

Brought a snowdrow from the fountain,

Lay it on the summer’s breast.

To the pillow crept the lilacs,

But the flowers at her throat

Were the heliotrope and smilax—

This was gained by casting vote—

And the jasmine sought her fingers,

While the fuschias kissed her hair;

At her lip a violet lingers

To deny them, who would dare?

Then the autumn’s sunny treasure

Drives me from the scene of sadness

While on poison nature feeds;

Decks her out in robes of gladness

To conceal the heart that bleeds;

At the summer’s grave there lingers

None more sad to drop a tear

Than the friend whose trembling fingers

Write this in memoriam here.