It is a bitter thing to die.

Just when a blast fell on the town,
I felt his lean claws clutch me down.
It seemed as if the hands of death
Were beating at my breast for breath;
His arms were like a twisted rope
Of rotten strands that tugged at hope.
_'Listen, my father, listen well!'_
The wind went tolling like a bell:

_'She's lying fifty fathoms deep,_
_Where fishes like white birds go by_
_Through water-air in ocean-land;_
_She has a prayer-book in her hand--_
_Tonight she walks; tonight she spoke;_
_Her hair goes floating out and up,_
_Blown one way, with the water weeds,_
_Always one way, like amber smoke._

_She asks the gift she gave to me--_
_This ring--I cannot get it off!'_
His hand and hand fought like two claws--
_'I hear her calling from the sea!'_
His terror made my own heart pause.

His voice went moaning with the wind,
And groaned and rattled, '_I have sinned_,'
And moaned and murmured at my ear
Of bat-winged angels standing near.