How shall the burial rite be read?

        The solemn song be sung?

The requiem for the loveliest dead,

        That ever died so young?

Her friends are gazing on her,

        And on her gaudy bier,

And weep! – oh! to dishonor

        Her beauty with a tear!

They loved her for her wealth —

        And they hated her for her pride —

But she grew in feeble health,

        And they love her – that she died.

They tell me (while they speak

        Of her “costly broider’d pall”)

That my voice is growing weak —

        That I should not sing at all —

Or that my tone should be

        Tun’d to such solemn song

So mournfully – so mournfully,

        That the dead may feel no wrong.

But she is gone above,

        With young Hope at her side,

And I am drunk with love

        Of the dead, who is my bride.

Of the dead – dead – who lies

        All motionless,

With the death upon her eyes,

        And the life upon each tress.

Thus on the coffin loud and long

        I strike – the murmur sent

Through the grey chambers to my song

        Shall be the accompaniment.

In June she died – in June

        Of life – beloved, and fair;

But she did not die too soon,

        Nor with too calm an air.

From more than fiends on earth,

        Helen, thy soul is riven,

To join the all-hallowed mirth

        Of more than thrones in heaven —

Therefore, to thee this night

        I will no requiem raise,

But waft thee on thy flight,

        With a Paean of old days.