Nor tear-drenched willow shed her graceful spray,
No lying epitaph the truth will scout,
No choir will chant, no man of God will pray,
No tears will silver the funereal pall—
Dark cloud that hides thy shame from light of day.
The felled tree strangely moves his comrades tall,
Waking the echoes of the mountain side,
But not a leaf will quiver at thy fall.
Like the mute convoy of the suicide,
Thou shalt wind down through night to find thy doom: