That sleeps, or wears the mask of sleep,
And come, whatever loves to weep,
And hear the ritual of the dead.
Ah yet, ev’n yet, if this might be,
I, falling on his faithful heart,
Would breathing thro’ his lips impart
The life that almost dies in me:
That dies not, but endures with pain,
And slowly forms the firmer mind,
Treasuring the look it cannot find,