Across the soundless waters, cold and grey,
Ere Night falls, sable-vestured and austere,
And Day dies in one roseate flush away,
While they who follow, tearful, in the train
See wonted sights with unfamiliar eyes;—
Like dreams, amid the fevered sleep of pain,
Rich domes and frescoed palaces arise.
Yet haply, mixed with sorrow, dawns the thought
How fit such obsequies for him whose pen
Hath given a wondrous poem,[3] passion-fraught,—