And whither this may rise and that be planting soon,

I see thine hooded shadow glide along.

I see thee with the poet on the hills

[Pg 33]

While each his magic mirror fills

Whence o'er the world such beauty spills,

That sorrow cannot be.

Of careless brightness.

I see thee in the lightness,

Of amorous lips atilt.

That wakes the charméd ear of night,

A mocking bird to lyric flight.

On haunted sleep men lie within,—

Far, faint and thin.

And ever calls,

Till perfect silence falls.

O! passing breath!

O! Death!

A DIRGE

A DIRGE

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