Curiosity arises on me whilst in my slumber-
Begging for death - bland, little, and somber.
For what wine quenches in the finis?
Life contracts death as death to the mother.

Is the ship rested upon the seabed departed?
Lost and addled the skeletoned sailors uncharted?
Oh! Their diaries fail to notion-
Of a cataclysm that waves adapted to fainthearted.

For what our mirrors surrender
Is that which our ideals birth