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"She is not dead," it says to their hearts; "true Singers can never die;
Their life is a voice of higher things unseen to the common eye;
The truths and the beauties are clear to them, God's right and the human wrong.
The heroes who die unknown, and the weak who are chained and scourged by the strong."
And the people smile at the death- word, for the mystic voice is clear :
"The Singer who lived is always alive: we hearken and always hear!"

And they raise her body with tender hands, and bear her down to the main,
They lay her in state on the mourning ship, like the lily-maid Elaine;
And they sail to her isle across the sea, where the people wait on the shore
To lift her in silence with heads all bare to her home for evermore.
Her home in the heart of her country; oh, a grave among our own
Is warmer and dearer than living on in the stranger lands alone.