Hunt and Lee, comps. The Book of the Sonnet. 1867.
XVII. Death Conquering and Death ConqueredWilliam Wordsworth (17701850)
M
Which mists and vapors from mine eyes did shroud,—
Nor view of who might sit thereon allowed;
But all the steps and ground about were strown
With sights the ruefullest that flesh and bone
Ever put on; a miserable crowd,
Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that cloud,
“Thou art our King, O Death! to thee we groan.”
Those steps I clomb; the mists before me gave
Smooth way; and I beheld the face of one
Sleeping alone within a mossy cave,
With her face up to heaven; that seemed to have
Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone;
A lovely Beauty in a summer grave!