Remorse?—deceit? at best weak water drops
Which wash out the bloom of sorrow.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Is she dead?
Why so shall I be—ere these autumn blasts
Have blown on the beard of winter. Is she dead?
Aye, she is dead—quite dead! The wild sea kissed her
With its cold, white lips, and then—put her to sleep:
She has a sand pillow, and a water sheet,
And never turns her head, or knows ’tis morning!