"For all the saints who from their labors rest"--
White gleam the lilies on the lifted bier,
As reverently the youthful bearers rear
Their sad, belovéd burden, pacing west,
Whilst all that host, as from a single breast,
One voice of praise outringing sweet and clear,
Peals the triumphal chant he loved to hear:
"Thy name, O Jesu, be forever blest."
Ah, turn and watch the pageantry of woe
Out through the darkened door. The glory-hymn
Wavers a space, but swells again, for lo!
The dismal pomp of death, the mourners slow,
The shrouded casket on the vision dim,
That gleam of Easter lilies dazzles so.