Despite his grief, the Poet was glad to be the one who should bring her ashore.

He held her now, if only her dead body, and his unselfish love found a melancholy recompense.

Albert would have chosen him of all men for the office.
Poor little Kate! In that dread moment when she found herself sinking to her cold bed among the water-weeds, she had, failing all other support, clasped her left hand with her right and gone down to darkness.

And as she went, so now came her lifeless body.

The right hand clasped tightly the four little white fingers of the left.
Poor little Kate! How white as pearl her face was, turned up toward that Sabbath sky! There was not a spot upon it.