Himself to see the broken clouds, that drifted
One after one, like infant elves at play,
Amid the night winds, in their lonely way—
Some whistling and some moaning, some asleep,
And dreaming dismal dreams, and sighing deep
Over their couches of green moss and flowers,
And solitary fern, and heather bowers.
The heavy bell toll’d two, and, as it toll’d,
Julio started, and the fresh-turn’d mould
He flung into the empty chasm with speed,