But in our heart something begins
To stir, and grow, and take a shape,
It flings away the dismal crape,
And o’er our lamentation wins.
It is a flower of rarest hue,
Belonging to Eternity,--
The blossom of the memory
Of what in him was good and true.
With this we will his grave adorn,
In summer-sun and winter’s frost,
Its beauty never shall be lost,
But growing brighter with each morn.