‘Still, still that awful face was shown,
That dead and soulless eye;
The breeze’s soft and soothing tone
To me still seemed his parting groan—
A sound I could not fly!
‘In the fearful silence of the night
Still by my couch he stood,
And when morn came forth in splendor bright,
Still there, between me and the light,
Was traced that scene of blood!’