Died terribly, a thousand deaths:
Strange things that passed like wild-birds cried;
The ghosts drew icy breaths.
“Too late! My jewel, Bird of Hope,
You slipt my grasp: now firm and free
You soar to that Olympian slope
Where every soul would be—”
The dead voice failed; the soul flew by,
Nor turned her course, nor dropped her wing:
A cold wind shivered through the sky: