XII.
             
        Lo, as a dove when up she springs
            To bear thro’ Heaven a tale of woe,
            Some dolorous message knit below
        The wild pulsation of her wings;

        Like her I go; I cannot stay;
            I leave this mortal ark behind,
            A weight of nerves without a mind,
        And leave the cliffs, and haste away

        O’er ocean-mirrors rounded large,
            And reach the glow of southern skies,
            And see the sails at distance rise,
        And linger weeping on the marge,

        And saying; ‘Comes he thus, my friend?
            Is this the end of all my care?’
            And circle moaning in the air:
        ‘Is this the end? Is this the end?’

        And forward dart again, and play
            About the prow, and back return
            To where the body sits, and learn
        That I have been an hour away.