Spectres we
  Of the dead Hours be;
  We bear Time to his tomb in eternity.

  Strew, oh, strew
  Hair, not yew!
  Wet the dusty pall with tears, not dew!
  Be the faded flowers
  Of Death's bare bowers
  Spread on the corpse of the King of Hours!

  Haste, oh, haste!
  As shades are chased,
  Trembling, by day, from heaven's blue waste,
  We melt away,
  Like dissolving spray,
  From the children of a diviner day,
  With the lullaby
  Of winds that die
  On the bosom of their own harmony!

IONE
  What dark forms were they?