Page:In memoriam (IA inmemoriam00tennrich).pdf/181

 But let no footstep beat the floor, Nor bowl of wassail mantle warm; For who would keep an ancient form Through which the spirit breathes no more?

Be neither song, nor game, nor feast, Nor harp be touch'd, nor flute be blown; No dance, no motion, save alone What lightens in the lucid east

Of rising worlds by yonder wood. Long sleeps the summer in the seed; Ran out your measur'd arcs, and lead The closing cycle rich in good.