For one, the youngest, hardly more than boy, Hurt in that night of sudden ruin and wreck, 560 Lay lingering out a five-years' death-in-life. They could not leave him. After he was gone, The two remaining found a fallen stem[216]; And Enoch's comrade, careless of himself, Fire-hollowing this in Indian fashion, fell 565 Sun-stricken, and that other lived alone. In those two deaths he read God's warning, "Wait." The mountain wooded to the peak, the lawns And winding glades high up like ways to Heaven, The slender coco's drooping crown of plumes, 570 The lightning flash of insect and of bird, The lustre of the long convolvuluses[217] That coil'd around the stately stems, and ran Ev'n to the limit of the land, the glows And glories of the broad belt of the world,[218] 575 All these he saw; but what he fain had seen He could not see, the kindly human face, Nor ever hear a kindly voice, but heard The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean-fowl, The league-long roller thundering on the reef, 580 The moving whisper of huge trees that branch'd And blossom'd in the zenith, or the sweep Of some precipitous rivulet to the wave, As down the shore he ranged, or all day long Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge, 585 A shipwreck'd sailor, waiting for a sail: No sail from day to day, but every day The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts Among the palms and ferns and precipices; 590 The blaze upon the waters to the east: The blaze upon his island overhead; The blaze upon the waters to the west; Then the great stars that globed themselves in Heaven, The hollower-bellowing ocean, and again The scarlet shafts of sunrise--but no sail. 595 There often as he watch'd or seem'd to watch, So still, the golden lizard on him paused, A phantom made of many phantoms moved Before him, haunting him, or he himself Moved haunting people, things and places, known 600 Far in a darker isle beyond the line; The babes, their babble, Annie, the small house, The climbing street, the mill, the leafy lanes, The peacock-yewtree and the lonely Hall, The horse he drove, the boat he sold, the chill 605 November dawns and dewy-glooming downs, The gentle shower, the smell of dying leaves, And the low moan of leaden-color'd seas.