Requiem, by Madison Cawein


  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!


  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!


  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!


  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.