Which to the heart was as a living spring
Of joy, with fearfulness of love possess’d,
Thus sinking! Love, joy, fear, all crush’d to this—
And the wide heaven so far—so fathomless th’ abyss!
LXI.
Where the line sounds not, where the wrecks lie low,
What shall wake thence the dead? Blest, blest, are they
That earth to earth entrust, for they may know
And tend the dwelling whence the slumberer’s clay
Shall rise at last; and bid the young flowers bloom