The poem by Simon Armitage, the bard of the British Royal Family, to bid farewell to Queen Elizabeth II

As Poet Laureate of the United Kingdom, a position he has held since 2019, Simon Armitage is a member of the British Royal Family and acts as a lyrical chronicler of the great events of his country. Here, his poem about the funeral of Queen Elizabeth II.

«The afternoon will come, no matter how determined the last hour of the day is, / lime trees and oaks in their last green glow, pearled in the September fog. / I have invoked a lily to illuminate these hours, a symbol of gratitude, / zones and auras of soft glow framing the radiant globes. / A promise made and kept for life: that was your gift, / for which, here is yours back, ‘glove grass’ to some, / each shining hood protected by blades stiff as spears. / The entire country carried its being in your thin hands, / hands that can rest now, relieved of the weight of a century.

»The afternoon has arrived. Rain on the dark lakes and gloomy mountains. / Lily of the valley, almost your namesake, a favorite flower / intertwined with your famous bouquets, with the moderate / strength and firm grace of its lanterns, each inflorescence / is a silent bell that hides a singular voice. A new, diffuse day / breaks crownless on remote peaks and public parks, and / everything revolves around these luminous petals and deep roots, / this lily that thrives between tower and tree, whose clarity / holds and shines beyond of life and the limits of its flowering.

Original Version:

«Evening will come, however determined the late afternoon, / Limes and oaks in their last green flush, pearled in September mist. / I have conjured a lily to light these hours, a token of thanks, / Zones and auras of soft glare framing the brilliant globes. / A promise made and kept for life –that was your gift– / Because of which, here is a gift in return, glovewort to some, / Each shining bonnet kept by stern lance-like leaves. / The country loaded its whole self into your slender hands, / Hands that can rest, now, relieved of a century’s weight.

»Evening has come. Rain on the black lochs and dark Munros. / Lily of the Valley, a namesake almost, a favorite flower / Interlaced with your famous bouquets, the restrained / Zeal and forceful grace of its lanterns, each inflorescence / A silent bell disguising a singular voice. A blurred new day / Breaks uncrowned on remote peaks and public parks, and / Everything turns on these luminous petals and deep roots, / This lily that thrives between spire and tree, whose brightness / Holds and glows beyond the life and border of its bloom ».