3.

In the door-yard fronting an old farm-house, near the whitewashed palings,

Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heartshaped leaves of rich green,

With many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with the perfume strong I love,

With every leaf a miracle;-and from this bush in the door-yard,

With delicate-colored blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green,

A sprig with its flower I break.

4.

In the swamp in secluded recesses,

A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song.

Solitary the thrush,

The hermit withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements,

Sings by himself a song.

Song of the bleeding throat,

Death's outlet song of life (for well, dear brother,

I know,

If thou wast not granted to sing thou wouldst surely die).

5.

Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid

cities,

Amid lanes and through old woods, where lately the violets peeped from the ground, spotting the gray débris,

Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes, passing the endless grass,

Passing the yellow-speared wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown fields uprisen,

Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards,

Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the

grave,

Night and day journeys a coffin.

6.

Coffin that passes through lanes and streets, Through day and night with the great cloud darkening the land,

With the pomp of the inlooped flags, with the cities draped in black,

With the show of the States themselves as of

crape-veiled women standing,

With processions long and winding and the flambeaus of the night,

With the countless torches lit, with the silent sea of faces and the unbared heads,

With the waiting dépôt, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces,

With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn,

With all the mournful voices of the dirges poured around the coffin,

The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organswhere amid these you journey,

With the tolling, tolling bells' perpetual clang,

Here, coffin that slowly passes,

I give you my sprig of lilac.

7.

(Nor for you, for one alone,—

Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring;

For, fresh as the morning, thus would I chant a song for you, O sane and sacred death.

All over bouquets of roses,

O death, I cover you over with roses and early lilies,

But mostly and now the lilac that blooms the

first,

Copious I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes,

With loaded arms I come, pouring for you,
For you and the coffins all of you, O death.)

8.

O western orb sailing the heaven,

Now I know what you must have meant as a month since I walked,

As I walked in silence the transparent shadowy

night,

As I saw you had something to tell as you bent to me night after night,

As you drooped from the sky low down as if to my side (while the other stars all looked on), As we wandered together the solemn night (for something, I know not what, kept me from sleep),