I sigh not that thy sunny hour was crossed
The self-same Shadow surely waits mine eyes.
Thy piteous terror of the appointed end,
For this I sigh! The billow, poised above,
Fell on thee like the beast that leaps to rend;
Thou couldst not know thy bridegroom Death was Love!
How otherwise thy sister, yea the Soul
Bent brooding o’er these broken wings of thine!—
Through all her house of mystery once she stole
To the inmost room, and found a Face benign.