Death is like moonlight in a lofty wood,
That pours pale magic through the shadowy leaves;
‘T is like the web that some old perfume weaves
In a dim, lonely room where memories brood; ...
LADY, in thy proud eyes
There is a weary look,
As if the spirit we know through them
Were daunted with rebuke
To think that the heart of man henceforth
Is read like a read book.
Lady, in thy lifted face
The solitude is sore;
... Read complete poem