SOMEWHERE a pine is green, Just where who knoweth, And in a garth unseen A rose-tree bloweth. These are ordained for thee— Think, oh soul, fixedly— Over thy grave to be; Swift the time floweth. Two black steeds on the down Briskly are faring, Or on their way to town Canter uncaring. These may with heavy tread Slowly convey the dead E'en ere the shoes be shed They now are wearing. |