To lie where the river ends, To lie in the velvet moonlight Observing a landscape that is dry-- To hear the vulture's convulsive cry, To see how slowly the river ended here, Scraping dehydrated rocks, The licked whiskers of its own Envanishment, alone in being, Is a kind of final sumptuousness Of torpid nothingness. . . . Or, more morose, more awful, to hear The Rappahannock's oracular voice Grow indistinct at the ocean's verge, Suave murmurs gone down to a mauver Sea, full of desolate cries, Like a mother who loses her son Among seas of soldiers embarking at the station: Riding away, away, never to return Even in flashes of untrustworthy thunder, Makes a finish of heaven.