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?
(George Henry Boker)
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