Yes! there it hangs upon the wall
And never gives a sound:
The hand that trimmed its greenhide fall
Is hidden underground—
There, in that patch of sallee shade,
Beneath that grassy mound.
I never take it from the wall:
That whip belonged to him—
The man I singled from them all:
He was my husband, Jim.
I see him now—so straight and tall,
So long and lithe of limb.
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