146
xcvi.
You leave us: you will see the Rhine,
And those fair hills I sail'd below,
When I was there with him; and go
By summer belts of wheat and vine
To where he breathed his latest breath,
That City. All her splendour seems
No livelier than the wisp that gleams
On Lethe in the eyes of Death.
Let her great Danube rolling fair
Enwind her isles, unmarked of me:
I have not seen, I will not see
Vienna; rather dream that there,
A treble darkness, evil haunts
The birth, the bridal; friend from friend,
Is oftener parted, fathers bend
Above more graves, a thousand wants
