The Funeral Bell
by Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862)

One more is gone
Out of the busy throng
      That tread these paths;
The church-bell tolls,
Its sad knell rolls
      To many hearths.

Flower-bells toll not,
Their echoes roll not
      Upon my ear;
There still, perchance,
That gentle spirit haunts
      A fragrant bier.

Low lies the pall,
Lowly the mourners all
      Their passage grope;
No sable hue
Mars the serene blue
      Of heaven’s cope.

In distant dell
Faint sounds the funeral bell;
      A heavenly chime;
Some poet there
Weaves the light-burthened air
      Into sweet rhyme.

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