Bring, In This Timeless Grave To Throw, No Cypress, Sombre On The Snow; Snap Not From The Bitter Yew His Leaves That Live December Through; Break No Rosemary, Bright With Rime And Sparkling To The Cruel Clime; Nor Plod The Winter Land To Look For Willows In The Icy Brook To Cast Them Leafless Round Him: Bring No Spray That Ever Buds In Spring. But If The Christmas Field Has Kept Awns The Last Gleaner Overstept, Or Shrivelled Flax, Whose Flower Is Blue A Single Season, Never Two; Or If One Haulm Whose Year Is O'Er Shivers On The Upland Frore, -Oh, Bring From Hill And Stream And Plain Whatever Will Not Flower Again, To Give Him Comfort: He And Those Shall Bide Eternal Bedfellows Where Low Upon The Couch He Lies Whence He Never Shall Arise.