6
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 bell's perpetual
clang,
Here, coffin that slowly passes,
I give you my sprig of lilac.