THE fog inrolling, dark and still Lies deep upon the crowded dead As flooding sea upon the sands, And quenches¹ starlight overhead.

    Long have they slept. Their separate dust Has mingled² with a nameless mould. Only the slower-crumbling stones Still tell so much as may be told.

    And now in shoreless fog adrift Like some lone³ mariner⁴ gliding⁵ by, I lean above the drowning graves And wonder when I too shall lie

    Where evermore the tides of night And earth will hide my lonely rest； And Time will bid my love forget To read the stone upon my breast.