Not with a cry, nor with the stifled sound
Of one who 'neath Death's billows of Despair
Thrusts up blue lips toward the outer air,
Searching if any breathing may be found;
Who plucks with groping finger-tips to rend
The water's edges for a fraction's space,
Through which he may push up his haggard face
For one last look—the last before the end.
As a broad river, having journeyed far
Constrained by banks—too often fretfully—