She had no wedding bells. Her well-oiled sire
Led her in tribal veilings up the aisle
To where a curate, impatient for his hire,
Hovered, and Tom in his stiff Sunday style.
Things went through quick. It mattered not. She moved
In a mazed phantasmagoria all the while.
Thereafter births, deaths, a subdued drudgery, old age, the selling of the house and furniture and the going to live with her daughter, where she is not very happy. The poet concludes on a swift crescendo, maestoso:
Death sets free: it is Life that holds in thrall ...
Blow up, O trumpets of eternity!
Shout, souls of God, from starry sea to sea!