David Given Schwarm

       He lives, he wakes—’tis Death is dead, not he;       Mourn not for Adonais. Thou young Dawn,       Turn all thy dew to splendour, for from thee       The spirit thou lamentest is not gone;       Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to moan!       Cease, ye faint flowers and fountains, and thou Air,       Which like a mourning veil…

       He has outsoar’d the shadow of our night;       Envy and calumny and hate and pain,       And that unrest which men miscall delight,       Can touch him not and torture not again;       From the contagion of the world’s slow stain       He is secure, and now can never mourn       A heart grown cold, a head grown gray…