The calm dead face from us is hid___
The solemn knell is sadly rung,
The clods fall on the coffin lid.
It is an autumn afternoon___
The blue-fringed gentian nods its head
Above the open grave that soon
Will rise between us and the dead.
I gaze upon the heap of ground
That hides my last, my dearest friend___
This tearful throng, this silent mound,
Is this the end, is this the end?
__Albert Bigelow Paine.