And, gazing on the solemn portent, weep
As if thy head were waters.
Weary years
Since then have planted furrows on my brow,
And sorrows in my heart, and the pale moon,
That shone around us on that lovely eve,
Is shining now upon thy swarded grave,
And I have come, a pilgrim of the night,
To bow at memory’s holy shrine and keep
My unforgotten vow.