II.

The air is damp, and hushed, and close, As a rich man’s room, where he taketh repose An hour before death; My very heart faints, and my whole soul grieves At the moist, rich smell of the rotting leaves, And the breath Of the fading edges of box beneath, and the year’s last rose. Heavily hangs the broad sun-flower Over its grave, the earth so chilly; Heavily hangs the hollyhock, Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. ALFRED TENNYSON.