LVI.
I call’d! To call what answers not our cries—
By what we loved to stand unseen, unheard—
With the loud passion of our tears and sighs,
To see but some cold glittering ringlet stirr’d;
And in the quench’d eye’s fixedness to gaze,
All vainly searching for the parted rays—
This is what waits us! Dead!—with that chill word
To link our bosom-names! For this we pour
Our souls upon the dust—nor tremble to adore!