"According to the stories, his souls had spent as long as a quarter moon roaming the Spirit World while his abandoned body lay clay-cold and limp."
"For I crave one kiss of your clay-cold lips And that is all I seek. '"
"“O do not wait to talk!” cried she, “go to him now, or you will never see him more! the hand of death is on him, — cold, clay-cold is its touch! he is breathing his last — Oh murdered Delvile! massacred husband of my heart! groan not so piteously! fly to him, and weep over him! — fly to him and pluck the poniard from his wounded bosom!”"