Thou grim physician, armed with septic shears, 
Thou that dissemblest even in death's repose 
Earth's quiet pulse and her remedial throes, 
How dull thy visage on this day appears! 
Let now the dismal heaven give vent, its tears 
Come frozen ever; no gale coeval blows 
Filled with the ravaged perfume of the rose; 
And keep not all fair things forsaken biers? 
O haste, then, spiritless minister, thy pains 
To charge the sources of the unfruitful earth 
For harvests blest in wood, in plot and lawn! 
O laggard, on! till fire re-flood the veins 
Of Spring here, ay, to trip the vales with Mirth, 
As, long night over, does the exulting dawn!