XLVI.
They 'lumed pale torches at her moveless feet,
That flung grey shadows round the ghostly room,
And ofttimes misty clouds of incense sweet
Went wreathing upward through the death-like gloom;
There was no sound, not e'en a faint heart-beat,
But all was silent as it were Death's tomb,
And from without the breezes as they drave,
Sigh'd low and sad like mourners o'er a grave.