Of all their joys, their triumphs, and their pains!
Yet to stand here might well exalt the mind;
These are not common moments nor is this
A common scene. Hark, how the coming wind
Booms like the funeral dirge of woe, and bliss,
And life, and form, and mind, and all that is!
How like the wafture of a world-wide wing
It sounds and sinks, and all is hushed again!
But are our spirits humbled? No; we string
The lyre of death with mystery and pain,