No! not like sleep to look upon art thou,
Death, Death! She lay, a thing for earth’s embrace,
To cover with spring-wreaths. For earth’s?—the wave
That gives the bier no flowers, makes moan above her grave!
LVIII.
On the mid-seas a knell!—for man was there,
Anguish and love—the mourner with his dead!
A long, low-rolling knell—a voice of prayer—
Dark glassy waters, like a desert spread—
And the pale-shining Southern Cross on high,