Tenderly， day that I have loved， I close your eyes，

　　And smooth your quiet brow， and fold your thin dead hands.

　　The grey veils of the half-light deepen； colour dies.

　　I bear you， a light burden， to the shrouded¹ sands，

　　Where lies your waiting boat， by wreaths of the sea's making

　　Mist- garlanded， with all grey weeds of the water crowned.

　　There you'll be laid， past fear of sleep or hope of waking；

　　And over the unmoving sea， without a sound，

　　Faint hands will row you outward， out beyond our sight，

　　Us with stretched arms and empty eyes on the far-gleaming

　　And marble sand. . . .

　　Beyond the shifting cold twilight²，

　　Further than laughter goes， or tears， further than dreaming，

　　There'll be no port， no dawn-lit islands！ But the drear

　　Waste darkening， and， at length， flame ultimate on the deep.

　　Oh， the last fire —— and you， unkissed， unfriended there！

　　Oh， the lone³ way's red ending， and we not there to weep！

　　（We found you pale and quiet， and strangely crowned with flowers，

　　Lovely and secret as a child. You came with us，

　　Came happily， hand in hand with the young dancing hours，

　　High on the downs at dawn！） Void now and tenebrous，

　　The grey sands curve before me. . . .

　　From the inland meadows，

　　Fragrant⁴ of June and clover， floats the dark， and fills

　　The hollow sea's dead face with little creeping shadows，

　　And the white silence brims the hollow of the hills.

　　Close in the nest is folded every weary wing，

　　Hushed all the joyful⁵ voices； and we， who held you dear，

　　Eastward⁶ we turn and homeward， alone， remembering . . .

　　Day that I loved， day that I loved， the Night is here！