Sing a Low Song

Sing a low song!
A tender cradling measure, soft and low,
Not sad nor long,
But such as we remember long ago,
When Time, now old, was flying
Over the sunny seasons, bright and fleet,

And the red rose was lying
Amongst a crowd of flowers all too sweet.
Sing o'er the bier!
The bell is swinging in the time-worn tower:
He's gone who late was here,
As fresh as manhood in its lustiest hour.

A song to each brief season,
Winter and shining Summer, doth belong,
For some sweet human reason, —
O'er cradle or the coffin still a song.