It is as if a silver chord
   Were suddenly grown mute,
And life's song with its rhythm warred
   Against a silver lute.

It is as if a silence fell
   Where bides the garnered sheaf,
And voices murmuring, "It is well,"
   Are stifled by our grief.

It is as if the gloom of night
   Had hid a summer's day,
And willows, sighing at their plight,
   Bent low beside the way.

For he was part of all the best
   That Nature loves and gives,
And ever more on Memory's breast
   He lies and laughs and lives.