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.
