Page:Writings of Henry David Thoreau (1906) v5.djvu/447

Rh So in my darkest hour my senses seem

To catch from her Acropolis a gleam.

Greece, who am I that should remember thee,

Thy Marathon and thy Thermopylæ?

Is my life vulgar, my fate mean,

Which on such golden memories can lean?

THE FUNERAL BELL

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.