The train wends outward, where new thousands wait
Beneath an ampler temple-arch of sky,
To speed with murmurous prayer and paean high
The royal progress of that sombre state;
On through the streets to sorrow consecrate;
On where thy sons, hushed Harvard, gather nigh,
To glean a blessing from the passing by;
And so to Auburn's unrestoring gate.
Is this thy victory, Death? Not thine, not thine,
Howe'er to grief we grant her natural throes.
He prophesied of life;we asked a sign,
So little mortals know for what they pray,
And by his open grave amid the snows
A chastened city keeps her Easter day.