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


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


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

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