| I swayed upon the gaudy stern |
| The butt-end of a steering-oar, |
| And saw wherever I could turn |
| A crowd
upon a 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 after running at the brim |
| Cried out upon that thing
beneath |
| —It had such dignity of limb— |
| By the sweet name of Death. |
|
|
|
|
| Though I’d my finger on my lip, |
| What could I but take up the song? |
| And running 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. |