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.