Dead, she drifted to his feet.
Tell us, Love, is Death so sweet?
Oh! the river floweth deep.
Fathoms deeper is her sleep.
Oh! the current driveth strong.
Wilder tides drive souls along.
Drifting, though he loved her not,
To the heart of Launcelot,
Let her pass; it is her place.
Death hath given her this grace.
Let her pass; she resteth well.
What her dreams are, who can tell?
Mute the steersman; why, if he
Speaketh not a word, should we?