Bring, in this timeless grave to throw, 
No cypress, sombre on the snow; 
Snap not from the bitter yew 
His leaves that live December through; 
Break no rosemary, bright with rime 
And sparkling to the cruel clime; 
Nor plod the winter land to look 
For willows in the icy brook 
To cast them leafless round him: bring 
No spray that ever buds in spring. 

But if the Christmas field has kept 
Awns the last gleaner overstept, 
Or shrivelled flax, whose flower is blue 
A single season, never two; 
Or if one haulm whose year is o'er 
Shivers on the upland frore, 
--Oh, bring from hill and stream and plain 
Whatever will not flower again, 
To give him comfort: he and those 
Shall bide eternal bedfellows 
Where low upon the couch he lies 
Whence he never shall arise.