The still fresh-coloured, robust shape of him
Who now had ceased to be—like as a dream.
(The fragrant perfume of the embalming-herbs,
The death-impregnant atmosphere absorbs:
Round and about, the vines were still in bloom;
But all a mournful posture did assume:
The glassy-bumpers ev’n appearèd dull,
And for awhile their liquors turn’d to gall:
The azure sky was totally obscur’d;
But Sol himself was not to be immured,—