Around his neck, and in a transport flung
Himself upon the earth, and said, and said
Wild, raving words, about the blessed dead:
And then he rose, and in the moonshade stood,
Gazing upon its light in solitude;
And smote his brow, at some idea wild
That came across: then, weeping like a child,
He falter'd out the name of Agathè;
And look'd unto the heaven inquiringly,
And the pure stars.

"Oh shame! that ye are met,
To mock me, like old memories, that yet
Break in upon the golden dream I knew,
While she--_she_ lived: and I have said adieu
To that fair one, and to her sister Peace,
That lieth in her grave. When wilt thou cease
To feed upon my quiet!--thou Despair!
That art the mad usurper, and the heir,
Of this heart's heritage! Go, go--return,
And bring me back oblivion, and an urn!
And ye, pale stars, may look, and only find,
The wreck of a proud tree, that lets the wind
Count o'er its blighted boughs; for such was he
That loved, and loves, the silent Agathè!"
And he hath left the sanctuary, like one
That knew not his own purpose--The red sun
Rose early over incense of bright mist,
That girdled a pure sky of amethyst.
And who was he? A monk. And those who knew