Lights the dull offing of the sea of Death. 
  And though no friend nor brother ever made
  My soul the burden of one prayer to Heaven,
  I dread to go alone into the grave,
  And fold my cold arms emptily away
  From the bright shadow of such loveliness. 
    Can the dull mist where swart October hides
  His wrinkled front and tawny cheek, wind-shorn,
  Be sprinkled with the orange fire that binds
  Away from her soft lap o’erbrimmed with flowers,
  The dew-wet tresses of the virgin May? 
  Or can the heart just sunken from the day
  Feed on the beauty of the noontide smile?—­
  O it is well life’s fair things fade so soon,
  Else we could never take our clinging hands
  From Beauty’s nestling bosom—­never put
  The red wine of love’s kisses sternly back,
  And feel the dull dust sitting on our lips
  Until the very grass grew over us. 
  O it is well! else for this beautiful life
  Our overtempted hearts would sell away
  The shining coronals of Paradise.

  In the gray branches of the oaks, starlit,
  I hear the heavy murmurs of the winds,
  Like the low plains of evil witches, held
  By drear enchantments from their demon loves. 
  Another night-time, and I shall have found
  A refuge from their mournful prophecies.

  Come, dear one, from my forehead smooth away
  Those long and heavy tresses, still as bright
  As when they lay ’neath the caressing hand
  That unto death betrayed me.  Nay, ’tis well! 
  I pray you do not weep; or soon or late,
  Were this sad doom unsaid, their light had filled
  The empty bosom of the waiting grave. 
  There, now I think I have no further need—­
  For unto all at last there comes a time
  When no sweet care can do us any good! 
  Not in my life that I remember of,
  Could my neglect have injured any one,
  And if I have by my officious love,
  Thrown harmful shadows in the way of some,
  Be piteous to my natural weakness, friends: 
  I never shall offend you any more!

  And now, most melancholy messenger,
  Touch my eyes gently with Sleep’s heavy dew. 
  I have no wish to struggle from thy arms,
  Nor is there any hand would hold me back. 
  To die, is but the common heritage;
  But to unloose the clasp that to the heart
  Folds the dear dream of love, is terrible—­
  To see the wildering visions fade away,
  As the bright petals of the young June rose
  Shook by some sudden tempest.  On the grave
  Light from the open sepulchre is laid,
  And Faith leans yearningly away to heaven,
  But life hath glooms wherein no light may come!