'It is not, torn with inward strife,
My wish to linger on,
And live, when she, the very life
Of all my hopes, is gone.'
Then fell his tears; his hands were clasped,
And moanings of despair
Burst from his heart, his blade he grasped
To still the conflict there. But why inactive did he stand? A voice unearthly rose
Out of the tomb, and stayed his hand
Till on the hilt it froze. Like hollow gusts in winter drear,
That sound, appalling, came
So deep and sudden o'er his ear,
It deathlike thrilled his frame.