When first that horse, within whose populous womb <br />The birth was death, o'ershadowed Troy with fate, <br />Her elders, dubious of its Grecian freight, <br />Brought Helen there to sing the songs of home; <br />She whispered, “Friends, I am alone; come, come!” <br />Then, crouched within, Ulysses waxed afraid, <br />And on his comrades' quivering mouths he laid <br />His hands, and held them till the voice was dumb. <br />The same was he who, lashed to his own mast, <br />There where the sea-flowers screen the charnel-caves, <br />Beside the sirens' singing island pass'd, <br />Till sweetness failed along the inveterate waves. . . . <br />Say, soul,—are songs of Death no heaven to thee, <br />Nor shames her lip the cheek of Victory?<br /><br />Dante Gabriel Rossetti<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-lxxxvii-death-s-songsters/
