Of limbs again, and from my chair I rose,
And went toward the litter where he lay,
The spoil of death, in ruined loveliness;
Breathless, whose breath had once made amorous
The night with music. And I touched his eyes,
Which kindliness had closed with piteous hands
Before they brought him me, and knelt beside
The bier, and spoke to him. He heard me not:
For he had gone the irremeable way,
Into which darkness may not penetrate