Friend , if there be any near.
Is the blessed summer here?
Is 't the full moon, are they flowers,
Make so bright, so sweet the hours?
Is't the wind from cowslip beds,
That such fragrance o'er me sheds?

Oh my kindred, do not weep;
Never fell so sweet a sleep
Over mortal eyes. At night,
All the hills with snow were white,
And the tempest moaning drear—
But I wake with summer here.

Haste, and take my parting hand!
We are pushing from the land,
And adown a lovely stream
Gently floating—is't a dream?
For the oarsman near me sings,
Keeping time with snowy wings.

Stranger, with the wings of snow,
Singing by me as we row,
Tell my dear ones on the shore,
I have need of them no more;
Weeping will not let them see
That an angel goes with me.