Sonnet Vi:

VI Lone echoes from the dim cloud-covered shore Of Death are booming in my throbbing brain. I hear the rustle of my funeral train-- The wail of woe, the full, heart-staggering roar Of the great bells. I hear the organ pour Its sounding phrases in amidst the strain Of the sad choir. I hear the priest complain In measured rhetoric, and my loss deplore. Now the last service murmurs in my ear, Grief grows tumultuous--the sharp shameless cry Of piercing anguish shivers to the sky. As the piled earth grows o'er me, do I hear Her sob, her moan?--Was that her dropping tear? Who shrieked and fainted, falling where I lie?