By Algernon Charles Swinburne

Shall I strew on thee rose or rue or laurel,
      Brother, on this that was the veil of thee?
      Or quiet sea-flower moulded by the sea,
Or simplest growth of meadow-sweet or sorrel,
      Such as the summer-sleepy Dryads weave,
      Waked up by snow-soft sudden rains at eve?
Or wilt thou rather, as on earth before,
      Half-faded fiery blossoms, pale with heat
      And full of bitter summer, but more sweet
To thee than gleanings of a northern shore
      Trod by no tropic feet?

For thee, O now a silent soul, my brother,
      Take at my hands this garland, and farewell.
      Thin is the leaf, and chill the wintry smell,
And chill the solemn earth, a fatal mother,
      With sadder than the Niobean womb,
      And in the hollow of her breasts a tomb.
Content thee, howsoe'er, whose days are done;
      There lies not any troublous thing before,
      Nor sight nor sound to war against thee more,
For whom all winds are quiet as the sun,
      All waters as the shore.

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