And the woods—but they hear not thee!
“Long have I striven
With my deep-foreboding soul,
But the full tide now its bounds hath riven,
And darkly on must roll.
There’s a young brow smiling near,
With a bridal white-rose wreath—
Unto me it smiles from a flowery bier,
Touch’d solemnly by death!
“Fair art thou, Morna!