And Other Poems.
67
Censure not the frenzied action,
He but plunged where all must halt;
Goaded on by fierce distraction—
His the secret, his the fault.
He but plunged where all must halt;
Goaded on by fierce distraction—
His the secret, his the fault.
Rest him where the ocean plashes
To the moaning of the wind;
Death but robbed us of his ashes—
He has left his thoughts behind.
To the moaning of the wind;
Death but robbed us of his ashes—
He has left his thoughts behind.
