Above our dear Romancer's dust Grief takes the place of praise, Because of sudden cypress thrust
A vision of a savage land, A glimpse of cloud-ringed seas; A moonlit deck, a murderous hand;
She heard the story of the end, Each message, too, she heard; And there was one for every friend;
Mother of Him we call the Christ, No halo round thy brows we paint, Incense and prayer we offer not,