When morn his glorious pinions spread,
They found the erring woman, dead.
Part II
She woke as one wakes from a deep
And dreamless, yet exhausting, sleep.
A strange confusion filled her mind,
And sorrows vague and undefined,
Like half-remembered faces pressed
To memory’s window, in her breast,
Gazed at her with reproachful eyes.
She felt a sudden, dazed surprise,
Commingled with a sense of dread,
“I did but sleep—I am not dead,
“The potion and the purpose failed,
And I still live,” she wildly wailed.
“Nay, thou art dead, rash suicide,”
A sad voice spake: and at her side
She saw a weird and shadowy crowd
With anguished lips, and shoulders bowed,