By Lido’s wet accursed graves,
They scoop mine, roll me to its brink,
And ... on thy breast I sink!
She replies, musing.
Dip your arm o’er the boat-side, elbow-deep,
As I do: thus: were Death so unlike Sleep,
Caught this way? Death’s to fear from flame, or steel,
Or poison doubtless; but from water—feel!
Go find the bottom! Would you stay me? There!
Now pluck a great blade of that ribbon-grass