I.
The poet oped his bolted door
       &nbspThe midnight sky to view;
A spirit-feel was in the air
Which seemed to touch his spirit bare
       &nbspWhenever his breath he drew;
And the stars a liquid softness had,
As alone their holiness forbade
       &nbspTheir falling with the dew.


II.
They shine upon the steadfast hills,
       &nbspUpon the swinging tide,
Upon the narrow track of beach
       &nbspAnd the murmuring pebbles pied:
They shine on every lovely place,
They shine upon the corpse's face,
       &nbspAs it were fair beside.


III.
It lay before him, humanlike,
       &nbspYet so unlike a thing!
More awful in its shrouded pomp
       &nbspThan any crownèd king:
All calm and cold, as it did hold
       &nbspSome secret, glorying.

IV.
A heavier weight than of its clay
       &nbspClung to his heart and knee:
As if those folded palms could strike
       &nbspHe staggered groaningly,
And then o'erhung, without a groan,
The meek close mouth that smiled alone,
       &nbspWhose speech the scroll must be.