Their tears o’er one departed.
The harp of Israfel no more
Is heard below—some brighter shore
Receives him, and his lost Lenore
He clasps, the fiery hearted.
His were the wingéd words, that bear
Imaginations rich and rare,
As pinions’ seeds through all the air,
And sow them in each bosom.
Thoughts’ shadows lowered about his eye;