Like clouds that rake the mountain-summits,[43]

Or waves that own no curbing hand,

How fast has brother followed brother,

From sunshine to the sunless land!

Yet I, whose lids from infant slumber[44] 25

Were earlier raised, remain to hear

A timid voice, that asks in whispers,

“Who next will drop and disappear?”

Our haughty life is crowned with darkness,

Like London with its own black wreath, 30