White iris on thy bier,
With the white rose, we strew,
And lotus pale or blue
As moonlight on the orient mountain-snows. Slumber as they that sleep
In the slow sands unknown,
Or under seas that zone
With lulling foam the sealed, extremer lands. Slumber, with songless birds
That sang, and sang to death,
Giving their gladder breath
To lonely winds in one melodious pang. Sleep, with the golden queens
Of planets long forgot,
Whose fire-soft lips are not
Recalled by any sorcery of song. Sleep, with the flow'rs that were,
And any leaf that fell
On field or flowerless dell,
In autumn lost of memory and grief. Pass, with the music flown
From ivory lyre, and lute
Of mellow string left mute
In cities desolate ere the dream of Tyre. Pass, with the clouds that sank
In sunset turned to grey
On some Edenic day
For which the exiled years have ever yearned. White iris on thy bier,
With the white rose, we strew,
And lotus pale or blue
As moonlight on the orient mountain-snows.