Of one still morn, beneath his chosen tree;
From his clear voice, at first, the words of power
Came low, like moanings of a distant sea;
But swell’d and shook the wilderness ere long,
As if the spirit of the breeze grew strong.
“And then once more they trembled on his tongue,
And his white eyelids flutter’d, and his head
Fell back, and mist upon his forehead hung——
Know’st thou not how we pass to join the dead?
It is enough! he sank upon my breast—