He is floating down, by himself, to die!
Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings,
Yet the sweetest song is the last he sings,
Live so, my son, that when death shall come,
Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home.
G. W. Doane.
What is that, Mother?
“What is that, mother, that comes from the urn,
Fragrant and strong as we get it in turn?”