Coffin that passes through lanes and streets,
Through day and night with the great cloud darkening the land,
With the pomp of the inloop'd flags with the cities draped in black,
With the show of the States themselves as of crepe-veil'd women standing,
With processions long and winding and the flambeaus of the night,
[With the countless torches lit,]1 with the silent sea of faces and the unbared heads,
With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces,
With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn,
[With all the mournful voices of the dirges]1 pour'd around the coffin,
The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs -- where amid these you journey,
[With]2 the tolling bells' perpetual clang,
Here, coffin that slowly passes,
I give you a sprig of lilac.