Let a little grave be made,
Half in shadow, half in shade,
In a quiet, kindly place,
Friendly as her face.
Let the passing fairy bird
From his airy height be heard;
Ever, ever for that ground
Only gentle sound.
Let the singing winds, which be
Wingèd dream and melody,
Singing softly, by her lie,
Softly singing, die.
Let the bee has sucked the bloom
Homeward journey by her tomb,
And his tithe of sweet be paid
To her sweeter shade.
Let the low clouds, red and gold,
Mourn her on the mountains old;
Beauty, aye her guardian be,
You and Melody.
Spirits of sound and souls of flowers,
All you dearest griefless powers,
You with whom she went away,
Tend her night and day.