But make my grave in the forest’s gloom,
Where the breezes wave, like a soldier’s plume,
Each dark green bough of the dear old pines,
Where the lights and shadows softly merge,
And the sun-flakes sift through the netted vines;
Where the sea winds, sad with the sob of the surge,
From the harp-leaves sweep a solemn dirge
For the dead beneath the sighing pines.
When the winter’s icy fingers sow
The mound with jewels till it shines,
And cowled in hoods of glistening snow,
Like white-veiled Sisters bending low,