This day within the Abbey, where of old

Our kings are sepulchred, a king of song,

Browning, among his peers is laid to rest,

Borne to the tomb by loving hearts, and stoled

In shining raiment that his genius wove.

No lingering illness his, with swift surprise

Death flashed the Light Eternal in his eyes

And blinded Life. In this way he was blest.

Perhaps in some far star he now has met

His rose of love, his ne’er forgotten wife,

In life past death the passion of his life,

And they again as once in spirit blent

Look thro’ the veil this day and hear the fret

Of many feet, the swelling music spent

On mourning listeners. With voices low,

Chanting their hymn, the boys sing as they go,

“He giveth his Belovèd sleep”. What tho’

The perishable forms these two once wore

In different lands lie sundered by the sea;

Their spirits smile at this our fond regret:

“What matters anything since we have met”,

They radiant sing. Together! oh, what more

Can love, long parted, from the Eternal crave?

And if there be no meeting past the grave,

If all is darkness, silence, yet ’tis rest.

Be not afraid, ye waiting hearts that weep,

For God still giveth his belovèd sleep,

And if an endless sleep he wills, — so best.