A TRAGEDY IN WESTERN WOODS.[WOMAN SPEAKS.]
Why, we are willing, friend, to end with death;
Death to begin with is another thing.
Too bitter is it not to keep our breath
Until its best from this brave world we wring.
Death to begin with is another thing.
Too bitter is it not to keep our breath
Until its best from this brave world we wring.
Confronting dew and briar-rose, pitiless sun,
And bird that sang not knowing, on her breast
A bud unwithered, damp with blood, lay one
Who dreamed of life, perhaps—and knew the rest.
And bird that sang not knowing, on her breast
A bud unwithered, damp with blood, lay one
Who dreamed of life, perhaps—and knew the rest.
The girl's shy lover, through weird-whispering trees
Walked eagerly, perhaps an instant late:
(That day of all days, feverish to please!)—
He started, stared, and fell against the gate.
Walked eagerly, perhaps an instant late:
(That day of all days, feverish to please!)—
He started, stared, and fell against the gate.
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