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Scattered in waste o'er that sea-gulf of tombs?
Hush thy low moan and tell.
Hush thy low moan and tell.
But yet, and more than all—
Has not each foaming wave in fury tost
O'er earth's most beautiful, the brave, the lost,
Like a dark funeral pall?
Has not each foaming wave in fury tost
O'er earth's most beautiful, the brave, the lost,
Like a dark funeral pall?
'T is vain—thou answerest not?
Thou hast no voice to whisper of the dead;
'T is ours alone, with sighs like odors shed,
To hold them unforgot!
Thou hast no voice to whisper of the dead;
'T is ours alone, with sighs like odors shed,
To hold them unforgot!
Thine is as sad a strain,
As if the spirit in thy hidden cell
Pined to be with the many things, that dwell
In the wild restless main.
As if the spirit in thy hidden cell
Pined to be with the many things, that dwell
In the wild restless main.
And yet there is no sound
Upon the waters, whispered by the waves,
But seemeth like a wail from many graves,
Thrilling the air around.
Upon the waters, whispered by the waves,
But seemeth like a wail from many graves,
Thrilling the air around.
The earth, O moaning shell!
The earth hath melodies more sweet than these—
The music gush of rills, the hum of bees
Heard in each blossom's bell.
The earth hath melodies more sweet than these—
The music gush of rills, the hum of bees
Heard in each blossom's bell.
Are not these tones of earth,
The rustling forest, with its shivering leaves,
The rustling forest, with its shivering leaves,
