White iris on thy bier,

With the white rose, we strew,

And lotus pale or blue

As moonlight on the orient mountain-snows.

Slumber, as they that sleep

In the slow sands unknown,

Or under seas that zone

With lulling foam the sealed, extremer lands.

Slumber, with songless birds

That sang, and sang to death,

Giving their gladder breath

To lonely winds in one melodious pang.

Sleep, with the golden queens

Of planets long forgot,

Whose fire-soft lips are not

Recalled by any sorcery of song.

Sleep, with the flowers that were,

And any leaf that fell

On field or flowerless dell

In autumns lost of memory and grief.

Pass, with the music flown

From ivory lyre, and lute

Of mellow string left mute

In cities desolate ere the dream of Tyre.

Pass, with the clouds that sank

In sunset turned to grey

On some Edenic day

For which the exiled years have ever yearned.