XXII.
Still darkly, slowly, as a sullen mass
Of cloud o’ersweeping, without wind, the sky,
Dream-like I saw the sad procession pass,
And mark’d its victims with a tearless eye.
They moved before me but as pictures, wrought
Each to reveal some secret of man’s thought,
On the sharp edge of sad mortality;
Till in his place came one—oh! could it be?
My friend, my heart’s first friend!—and did I gaze on thee!