Classic Poem

I.

L IFT the oar, as silently
By yon sacred isle we pass;
Know we not if still she sleeps,
Where the wind such whisper keeps,
In yon waving grass!
Death's a mocker to delight,
That we know, — and yet, —
There was that in every breath
Of her motion — in the set
Of her features, fair and whole —
In the flashing of her eye,
Spirit joyous still, and high,
Speaking the immortal soul,
In a language warm and bright —
That should mock at death!

II.

Silently! — still silently!
Oh! methinks, if it were true,
If, indeed, she sleeps —
Wakeful never, though the oar
Of the well-beloved one, nigh,
Break the water as before; —
When, with but the sea in view,
And the sky-waste, and the shore,
Or some star that, sinking, creeps,
Between whiles of speech, to show
How sweet lover's tears may flow, —
They together went, forgetting,
How the moon was near her setting,
Down amid the waters low; —

III.

Then no more should lovely things,
Moon or star, or zephyr, stoop, —
But a cloud with dusky wings,
Gloom outgiving, still should droop,
O'er that islet lone: —
And the long grass by the breeze
Sullen rising from the seas,
Should make constant moan!
Silent! — Hark! — that dipping oar, —
Oh! methinks, it roused a tone
As of one upon the shore! —
'Twas the wind that swept the grass! —
Silently, oh! silently, —
As the sacred spot we pass!