Voice of unseen spirits
The pale stars are gone!
   For the sun, their swift shepherd,
   To their folds them compelling,
   In the depths of the dawn,
Hastes, in meteor-eclipsing array, and they flee
   Beyond his blue dwelling,
   As fawns flee the leopard.
      But where are ye?

A Train of dark Forms and Shadows passes by confusedly, singing.
    Here, oh, here!
    We bear the bier
Of the father of many a cancelled year!
    Spectres we
    Of the dead Hours be;
We bear Time to his tomb in eternity.

    Strew, oh, strew
    Hair, not yew!
Wet the dusty pall with tears, not dew!
    Be the faded flowers
    Of Death's bare bowers
Spread on the corpse of the King of Hours!

    Haste, oh, haste!
    As shades are chased,
Trembling, by day, from heaven's blue waste,
    We melt away,
    Like dissolving spray,
From the children of a diviner day,
    With the lullaby
    Of winds that die
On the bosom of their own harmony!