LVIII.
             
        In those sad words I took farewell:
            Like echoes in sepulchral halls,
            As drop by drop the water falls
        In vaults and catacombs, they fell;

        And, falling, idly broke the peace
            Of hearts that beat from day to day,
            Half-conscious of their dying clay,
        And those cold crypts where they shall cease.

        The high Muse answer’d: ‘Wherefore grieve
            Thy brethren with a fruitless tear?
            Abide a little longer here,
        And thou shalt take a nobler leave.’