They were like morn and quiet eve to me.
But she, the golden haired, is with the stars!
She, the blue-eyed, the fondest of the twain,
For her was opened heaven’s glorious bars,
Just as the sun was sinking in the main,
And flowers less fair, each in its soft green nest,
On the far shore, had sunk like her to rest.
Upon the waves she died—the sounding waves—
The sands her pillow, and the weeds her pall;
And there the deepest, tideless water laves