The sun rose up at midnight,
The sun rose red as blood,
It showed the Reaper, the dead Christ,
Upon His cross of wood.
For many live that one may die,
And one must die that many live—
The stars are silent in the sky
Lest my poor songs be fugitive.
"IS IT NOTHING TO YOU?"
By May Probyn
We were playing on the green together,
My sweetheart and I—
Oh, so heedless in the gay June weather,
When the word went forth that we must die.
Oh, so merrily the balls of amber
And of ivory tossed we to the sky,
While the word went forth in the King's chamber,
That we both must die.
Oh, so idly, straying through the pleasaunce,
Plucked we here and there
Fruit and bud, while in the royal presence
The King's son was casting from his hair
Glory of the wreathen gold that crowned it,
And, ungirding all his garment fair,
Flinging by the jewelled clasp that bound it,
With his feet made bare,
