Lay her under the rusty grass,
With her two eyes heavy and blind and done;
Her two hands crossed beneath her breast
One on one.

Lay her out in the paling eve,
With its sudden tears and white birch-trees;
And let her passing seem to be
One with these.

Close her out of this hour of grief,
And casting the earth on her, like a breath,
Sew her tenderly, that she may-
Reap her death!

And close her eyes, close, close her lips,
For still, too still is her smitten tongue;
Her hour's over, her breath has passed,
And her song is sung.

Lay her under the wild red grass
In the fields death-tossed and bowed with rain;
And let her silence seem to move
Within the grain.