Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch (1863–1944)

MAIDS, carry her forth—your dead,

Your pale young queen;

Two at her feet, two at her head,

And four between.—

Not as we wanted it,

But as God granted it.

Not now to the swinging chime,

To the organ swell,

Keep we the rank, treading in time—

But one dull bell.

Open the gates for her!

The Bridegroom waits for her.

We never had dreamed it so:

But she—she knew;

Walking aloof, placid of brow

Her short life through

Scornful, in surety

Guarding her purity.

Buds born for the bridal path

Cover her breast:

Babes of the dream now that she hath

Sleep in her rest.

Our peace above her let

Fall for her coverlet.