I

Upon your hearse this flower I lay 
Brief be your sleep! You shall be known 
When lesser men have had their day: 
Fame blossoms where true seed is sown, 
Or soon or late, let Time wound what it may.

II

Unvext by any dream of fame, 
You smiled, and bade the world pass by: 
But I--I turned, and saw a name 
Shaping itself against the sky-- 
White star that rose amid the battle's flame!

III

Brief be your sleep, for I would see 
Your laurels--ah, how trivial now 
To him must earthly laurel be 
Who wears the amaranth on his brow! 
How vain the voices of mortality!