By those fair hands in morning light,
Above those eyelids opening bright,
Be braided nevermore!
No, the lady is not dead,
Though flung thus wildly o'er her bed;
Like a wretched corse upon the shore,
That lies until the morning brings
Searchings, and shrieks, and sorrowings;
Or, haply, to all eyes unknown,
Is borne away without a groan,
On a chance plank, 'mid joyful cries
Of birds that pierce the sunny skies
With seaward dash, or in calm bands
Parading o'er the silvery sands,
Or mid the lovely flush of shells,
Pausing to burnish crest or wing.
No fading footmark see that tells
Of that poor unremembered thing!

O dreadful is the world of dreams,
When all that world a chaos seems
Of thoughts so fixed before!
When heaven's own face is tinged with blood!
And friends cross o'er our solitude,
Now friends of our's no more!
Or dearer to our hearts than ever.
Keep stretching forth, with vain endeavour,
Their pale and palsied hands,
To clasp us phantoms, as we go
Along the void like drifting snow.