VI

Lone echoes from the dim cloud-covered shore
Of Death are booming in my throbbing brain.
I hear the rustle of my funeral train--
The wail of woe, the full, heart-staggering roar
Of the great bells. I hear the organ pour
Its sounding phrases in amidst the strain
Of the sad choir. I hear the priest complain
In measured rhetoric, and my loss deplore.
Now the last service murmurs in my ear,
Grief grows tumultuous--the sharp shameless cry
Of piercing anguish shivers to the sky.
As the piled earth grows o'er me, do I hear
Her sob, her moan?--Was that her dropping tear?
Who shrieked and fainted, falling where I lie?