The dead—can they complain?)
And her long hair down to her knee has grown,
And her hand is cold as a hand of stone,
And wan as a hand of flesh may be,
While the bird in the bower sings merrily.
(Hark to the wind and rain!)
Sadly she leans by her casement side,
(Flotsam and jetsam from over the sea,
Can the dead arise again?)
And watcheth the ebbing and flowing tide,