The wanton lily bloom gone, you’re the last
Pale flower in this river’s dim expanse—
The mirror of the wild wold—waning fast—
That was once yours to weave. Now, take this chance
To feel the river creep up your white sleeve,
Drift down the river that leads you to your
Dark, mysterious Death, who by your leave
Glides to your unmoored boat by foreign shore.
You lift your face to his: keep it there, greet
Him with your song, art such as Lancelot
Cannot deserve. So, sing your carol sweet—
Indeed, in death ne’er will you be forgot.
The poets metered life beyond your death,
And painters caught your last immortal breath.