And so she brought me to the river's brink
To plunge me downward. All the night was mine;
And so, exulting, to Death's darker drink
I stooped and drank.--What better drink divine,
O man, hast thou? what wiser way is thine?
Who find'st me carrion on a hungry coast,
Sand in mine eyeballs, in my hair the brine,
And o'er my corpse with bitter lips dost boast--
"Poor fool! poor ghost! Alas! poor, melancholy ghost!"