LOVE IN EXILE..
175
IX.
In a lonesome burial-place
Crouched a mourner white of face;
Wild her eyes—unheeding
Circling pomp of night and day—
Ever crying, "Well away,
Love lies a-bleedine!"
And her sighs were like a knell,
And her tears for ever fell,
With their warm rain feeding
That purpureal flower, alas!
Trailing prostrate in the grass,
Love lies a-bleeding.
