Unto one who lies at rest

Unto one who lies at rest

UNTO one who lies at rest

'Neath the sunset, in the West,

Clover-blossoms on her breast.

Lover of each gracious thing

Which makes glad the summer-tide,

From the daisies clustering

And the violets purple-eyed,

To those shy and hidden blooms

Which in forest coverts stay,

Sending wandering perfumes

Out as guide to show the way,

All she knew, to all was kind;

None so humble or so small

That she did not seek and find

Silent friendship from them all.

Moss-cups, tiarella leaves,

Dappld like the adder's skin,

Fungus huts with ivory eaves

Which the fairies harbor in,

Regiments of fronded ferns,

Golden-rod and asters frail,

Every flaming leaf that burns

Red against the autumn pale,

Every pink-cupped wayside rose,--

All to her were dear and known;

But above them all she chose

Clover-blossoms for her own.

So they laid her to her rest

In the sun-warmed, bounteous West, Clover-blossoms on her breast.