O snatch’d away in beauty’s bloom!On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;But on thy turf shall roses rearTheir leaves, the earliest of the year,And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:And oft by yon blue gushing streamShall Sorrow lean her drooping head,And feed deep thought with many a dream,And lingering pause and lightly tread;Fond wretch! as if her step disturb’d the dead!Away! we know that tears are vain,That Death nor heeds nor hears distress:Will this unteach us to complain?Or make one mourner weep the less?And thou, who tell’st me to forget,Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.
The Last Invocation
A short funeral poem by American writer Walt Whitman, about the soul passing from life into death.