poem


I see thy eyes grow weary,
And thy pallour death doth take,
Your mouring and your virtue
Did this one moment make.

I saw thee as I wish'd to;
An emblem; stong and kind.

And yet the haven's whisper
Doth speak to thy immortal mind.

So, my Lady, rest thee,
And I shall leave you be,
But know that there is comfort:
They still call from beyond the sea.

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