Coffin that passes through lanes and streets，

Through day and night with the great cloud darkening the

land，

With the pomp of the inloop'd flags with the cities draped in

black，

With the show of the States themselves as of crape-veil'd

women standing，

With processions long and winding and the flambeaus of the

night，

With the countless torches lit， with the silent sea of faces and

the unbared heads，

With the waiting depot， the arriving coffin， and the sombre

faces，

With dirges through the night， with the thousand voices

rising strong and solemn，

With all the mournful voices of the dirges pour'd around the

coffin，

The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs - where

amid these you journey，

With the tolling tolling bells' perpetual clang，

Here， coffin that slowly passes，

I give you my sprig of lilac.