Moved stolidly and never rose again.
Old Farmer Dorrance gave a single groan,
And hurried down among us—all the man,
Though white with anguish—as we took our course
Around the meadows, searching for the dead.
“An eddying gulf ran up the hither bank,
Close by the paper-mill, and there the flood
Gave back its booty; there we found them laid,
Covered with floating leaves and twigs of trees,
Not many feet apart: so Love’s last clasp