Requiem

I     No more for him, where hills look down,     Shall Morning crown     Her rainy brow with blossom bands! -     The Morning Hours, whose rosy hands     Drop wildflowers of the breaking skies     Upon the sod 'neath which he lies. -     No more for him! No more! No more! II     No more for him, where waters sleep,     Shall Evening heap     The long gold of the perfect days!     The Eventide, whose warm hand lays     Great poppies of the afterglow     Upon the turf he rests below. -     No more for him! No more! no more! Ill     No more for him, where woodlands loom,     Shall Midnight bloom     The star-flowered acres of the blue!     The Midnight Hours, whose dim hands strew     Dead leaves of darkness, hushed and deep,     Upon the grave where he doth sleep. -     No more for him! No more! No more! IV     The hills, that Morning's footsteps wake:     The waves that take     A brightness from the Eve; the woods     And solitudes, o'er which Night broods,     Their Spirits have, whose parts are one     With him, whose mortal part is done.     Whose part is done.