And stilly down the tide my spirit floats
Singing or wailing
To the tune the waters make. Here we forget a space
The crawling sins of man that sting and gloat,
The pain and fear that haggers every face,
But vaguely and remote
The strident trumpet and the clamorous voices sound—
Grief doth forget to curse her Gods or pray,
While pagan follies squander all around
Their brief gay hours in holiday;