Through gulfs of loss unplummeted
Should fall, and fall, forevermore,
Fire of torment at its core?
Oh, horrible and leaden dread!
The grace of God blot out our sins!
—The women knock at the chamber door,
The queen starts up, the day begins.
DEATH-TRYST
(Shelley, 1822: Tennyson, 1892.)
I
One sailed an azure sea in fateful hour: