Unto one who lies at rest 
'Neath the sunset, in the West, 
Clover-blossoms on her breast. 

Lover of each gracious thing 
Which makes glad the summer-tide, 
From the daisies clustering 
And the violets purple-eyed, 
To those shy and hidden blooms 
Which in forest coverts stay, 
Sending wandering perfumes 
Out as guide to show the way, 
All she knew, to all was kind; 
None so humble or so small 
That she did not seek and find 
Silent friendship from them all. 
Moss-cups, tiarella leaves, 
Dappld like the adder's skin, 
Fungus huts with ivory eaves 
Which the fairies harbor in, 
Regiments of fronded ferns, 
Golden-rod and asters frail, 
Every flaming leaf that burns 
Red against the autumn pale, 
Every pink-cupped wayside rose,-- 
All to her were dear and known; 
But above them all she chose 
Clover-blossoms for her own. 

So they laid her to her rest 
In the sun-warmed, bounteous West, 
Clover-blossoms on her breast.