22
the story of two lives.
She hastened on, and I, alone once more,
Felt calm. The bitterness of death was o'er.
I'd given my all—but she was saved; for me
It mattered nought—could I more wretched be?
As I thus stood—a sharp and piercing pain
Shot through my side—again, and once again—
As if a knife was searching through my breast,
To find my heart, and give its tumult rest.
It passed, and left a sense of dim release,
I knew that pain was harbinger of peace.
Felt calm. The bitterness of death was o'er.
I'd given my all—but she was saved; for me
It mattered nought—could I more wretched be?
As I thus stood—a sharp and piercing pain
Shot through my side—again, and once again—
As if a knife was searching through my breast,
To find my heart, and give its tumult rest.
It passed, and left a sense of dim release,
I knew that pain was harbinger of peace.
I found a shelter on that very night—
A, cellar loathsome, dark, but with the right
Of solitude, I need no more; by day
I earn, or beg, a trifle, then I stay
Quite still, exhausted, for long hours—no pain—
No care—in this last conflict I shall gain.
A, cellar loathsome, dark, but with the right
Of solitude, I need no more; by day
I earn, or beg, a trifle, then I stay
Quite still, exhausted, for long hours—no pain—
No care—in this last conflict I shall gain.
Sometimes I creep up for a little air,
As now; but rarer grows the wish, more rare.
Some of my old, impatient restlessness
Stirred in my heart to-night—beneath my dress
It throbs like a poor hunted thing, which fears,
And madly still resists the leaguered spears;
As now; but rarer grows the wish, more rare.
Some of my old, impatient restlessness
Stirred in my heart to-night—beneath my dress
It throbs like a poor hunted thing, which fears,
And madly still resists the leaguered spears;
