I swayed upon the gaudy stern

The butt end of a steering oar,

And everywhere that I could turn

Men ran upon the shore.

And though I would have hushed the crowd

There was no mother’s son but said,

“What is the figure in a shroud

Upon a gaudy bed?”

And fishes bubbling to the brim

Cried out upon that thing beneath,

It had such dignity of limb,

By the sweet name of Death.

2

Though I’d my finger on my lip,

What could I but take up the song?

And fish and crowd and gaudy ship

Cried out the whole night long,

Crying amid the glittering sea,

Naming it with ecstatic breath,

Because it had such dignity

By the sweet name of Death.

If any man drew near

When I was young,

I thought, “He holds her dear,”

And shook with hate and fear.

But oh, ’twas bitter wrong

If he could pass her by

With an indifferent eye.

Whereon I wrote and wrought,

And now, being gray,

I dream that I have brought

To such a pitch my thought

That coming time can say,

“He shadowed in a glass

What thing her body was.”

4

For she had fiery blood

When I was young,

And trod so sweetly proud

As ’twere upon a cloud,

A woman Homer sung,

That life and letters seem

But an heroic dream.

She lived in storm and strife.

Her soul had such desire

For what proud death may bring

That it could not endure

The common good of life,

But lived as ’twere a king

That packed his marriage day

With banneret and pennon,

Trumpet and kettledrum,

And the outrageous cannon,

To bundle Time away

That the night come.

I had this thought awhile ago

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