Although it were a grateful thing
To drain the cup his heralds bring,
And yield them to his ransoming;
To quaff the calm, Lethean wave,—
In passionless tenure of the grave
Forgetting all they could not save.
What angels hold them up, among
The ruins of their lives, so long?
What visions make their spirits strong?
In sackcloth, at the outer gate,