STOLEN WATERS.
175
For hers was now my heart, she said,
The heart that once had been mine own:
And in my breast I bore instead
A cold cold heart of stone.
So grew the morning overhead.
The sun shot downward through the trees
His old familiar flame;
All ancient sounds upon the breeze
From copse and meadow came—
But I was not the same.
They call me mad; I smile, I weep,
Uncaring how or why:
Yea, when one's heart is laid asleep,
What better than to die?
So that the grave be dark and deep.
