164
what's o'clock
In a bitter orange moonlight
Lies the woman on the knees
Of that austere thing of granite,
All surrounded by the trees,
And the curling, sneering river,
And nothing else but these.
Lies the woman on the knees
Of that austere thing of granite,
All surrounded by the trees,
And the curling, sneering river,
And nothing else but these.
On a sudden, she has risen,
And with clenched fists beats the face
Of that frozen granite horror,
And her blows in that drear place
Are as thunder-claps resounding
Upon vastnesses of space.
And with clenched fists beats the face
Of that frozen granite horror,
And her blows in that drear place
Are as thunder-claps resounding
Upon vastnesses of space.
For an instant still she batters
At that changeless, mocking frown,
Then flings her bleeding hands
Above her head and plunges down
At that changeless, mocking frown,
Then flings her bleeding hands
Above her head and plunges down
