We bore her body slowly to the grave
On royal purple as befits a queen,
And o’er her pall, with crosses white between,
Were broidered flowers the Lenten season gave,
Gold as her heart was gold. Few words and
We said; then laid her where the mosses green
Made for the wounded earth a gentle screen,
And sang above her sleep by Brathay’s wave.
And when the river, golden from the west
Ran down the purple vale, and Hesperus
Hung bright o’er Wetherlam, we came to weep,
But in such bridal robes the grave was drest,
Such gracious flowers looked peacefully at us,
We well-nigh felt our sorrow share her sleep.
(Valete: Tennyson and other Memorial Poems, p. 158)