From their midst, to the surging depths below;
And she moans, “Dear Love, I shall miss you so.”
“Love but laughs at dangers; fear not;” they say,
“Fancy not he dies: We all live for aye.”
Right over they tumbled;—she peers down to see—
Not death;—but mad revels of exquisite glee:
Joyous myriads whirled in the dashing spray!
· · · · ·
Think ye not love dies in an hour—a day;
’Tis his dim, dull shadow, o’er which men weep,