To he whose fingers itch to feel her breath,
Dragging her boldly, through tall fields of grass;
She whose flowering bough is stillborn death,
The graveyard plot's the last place she will pass.

Beauty is the short answer of the muse,
To meet the cymbal crash of longing storm;
It's headlong rush, to light the shortest fuse;
Frightening fury, to douse the trees lantern.

The last hour springs, like whistling in the wind
Pliant captive, makes her way toward him.
His grasp less tender, than were any vise
Broken in his grasp, her bright eyes grown dim.

If even love could be borrowed or stole-
All live in danger of filling that hole.