Let her pass; it is her place. Death hath given her this grace. 

 Let her pass; she resteth well. What her dreams are, who can tell? 

 Mute the steersman; why, if he Speaketh not a word, should we? 

 II. 

 Dead, she drifteth to his feet. Close, her eyes keep secrets sweet. 

 Living, he had loved her well. High as Heaven and deep as Hell. 

 Yet that voyage she stayeth not. Wait you for her, Launcelot? 

 Oh! the river floweth fast. Who is justified at last? 

 Locked her lips are. Hush! If she Sayeth nothing, how should we? 

 

 

   III. 

 

 THE POET AND THE POEM. 

 Upon the city called the Friends' The light of waking spring Fell vivid as the shadow thrown Far from the gleaming wing Of a great golden bird, that fled Before us loitering. 

The light of waking spring

Far from the gleaming wing

Before us loitering.

 In hours before the spring, how light The pulse of heaviest feet! And quick the slowest hopes to stir To measures fine and fleet. And warm will grow the bitterest heart To shelter fancies sweet. 

The pulse of heaviest feet!

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