Alighted by the lonely ladye’s side.
He sat like winter o’er the wasted year—
Like melancholy winter, drawing near
To its own death. “Oh me! the worm at last
Will gorge upon me, and the autumn blast
Howl by!—Where?—where?—there is no worm to creep
Amid the waters of the lonely deep;
But I will take me Agathè upon
This sorrowful, sore bosom, and anon,
Down, down, through azure silence, we shall go,