LVI.

I call’d! To call what answers not our cries-- By what we loved to stand unseen, unheard-- With the loud passion of our tears and sighs, To see but some cold glittering ringlet stirr’d; And in the quench’d eye’s fixedness to gaze, All vainly searching for the parted rays-- This is what waits us! Dead!--with that chill word To link our bosom-names! For this we pour Our souls upon the dust--nor tremble to adore!