Burial

They found thee — Nature burying her dead.
Covering thee o'er with her dead summer dross:
Shrunk spikes of blossom lightly did she toss,
And the brown needles of the fir-tree spread
Thick as a cloak about thee, on thy bed
Of withering leaves, dropt earth, long mountain moss,
With little branches bowed and laid across,
And lapping over. Uninhabited
Was the wild wood, savage with crag and fir.
And the wild goats leapt 'mid the crags, so deep
In winter was the silence: but we found
Nature alone that waited on thy sleep.
Suffering no other eye on that strewn ground,
None nearer than the stars to watch with her.