Mixed with the masque of death's old comedy
Though thou too pass, have here our flowers, that we
⁠For all the flowers thou gav'st upon thee shed,
And pass not crownless to Persephone.

Blue lotus-blooms and white and rosy-red
We wind with poppies for thy silent head,
⁠And on this margin of the sundering sea
Leave thy sweet light to rise upon the dead.