This gloom has sucked all interest from the scene,
   Now changed wrathful grey: 
Familiar things, that staring plain had been,
   Fade in mists away: 
At ambush, watching from its stormy lair,
Some danger hovering loads the stagnant air.

It serves to little purpose I may know
   That electric law
Whereby the jagged glare and thunder-blow
   Latent impulse draw;
No less my danger.  Ha! that lightning flash
Proclaims in fire the coming thunder-crash.

But what care I though deluges down pour
   Beating earth to mire,
Though heaven shattering with the thunder’s roar
   Scorcheth now in fire,
Though every planet molten from its place
Should trickle lost through everlasting space;

For this blank prospect, void of all but dread,
   Void as any tomb,
My soul has left; and by a lonely bed,
   In a girl’s sick room,
Hangs there expectant of her parting breath,
The silent voice of doom, the stroke of death.

PART THE SECOND.

I. MY LADY IN DEATH.

All is but coloured show.  I look
   Into the green light shed
   By leaves above my head,
And feel its inmost worth forsook
   My being, when she died. 
   This heart, now hot and dried,
Halts, as the parched course where a brook
   Mid flowers was wont to flow,
   Because her life is now
No more than stories in a printed book.

Grass thickens proudly o’er that breast,
   Clay-cold and sadly still,
   My happy face felt thrill. 
How much her dear, dear mouth expressed! 
   And now are closed and set
   Lips which my own have met! 
Her eyelids by the damp earth pressed! 
   Damp earth weighs on her eyes;
   Damp earth shuts out the skies. 
My Lady rests her heavy, heavy rest.

To see her high perfection sweep
   The favoured earth, as she
   With welcoming palms met me! 
How can I but recall and weep? 
   Her hands’ light charm was such,
   Care vanished at their touch. 
Her feet spared little things that creep;
   “For stars are not,” she’d say,
   “More wonderful than they.” 
And now she sleeps her heavy, heavy sleep.

Immortal hope shone on that brow,
   Above whose waning forms
   Go softly real worms. 
Surely it was a cruel blow
   Which cut my Darling’s life
   Sharply, as with a knife;
I hate my own that lets me grow
   As grows a bitter root
   From which rank poisons shoot
Upon the grave where she is lying low.

Ah, hapless fate!  Could it be just,
   That her young life should play
   Its easy, natural way;
Then, with an unexpected thrust,
   Be hence thus rudely sent;
   Even as her feelings blent
With those around, whose love would trust
   Her willing power to bless,
   For all their happiness? 
Alone she moulders into common dust.