And over him in dull and hopeless pain
The mourners stood, sore stricken and perplexed;
“He lieth prone; he will not rise again;
And who shall fall the next?”
O sweet changed face! We see, we know him now,
Rent the thick mist that blurred our straining ken—
Death: of all angels round the throne that bow,
Most pitiful to men!
Through the dusk chamber where the watchers weep
Slowly he moves with calm and noiseless tread,