Page:An epic of women and other poems (IA epicofwomenother00osha).pdf/28

 Cypress tree, it groweth on a mound; And sickly are the flowers it hath of May, Full of a false and subtle spell are they; For whoso breathes the scent of them around, He shall not see the happy Summer day.

In June, it bringeth forth, O Ivory bird! A winter berry, bitter as the sea; And whoso eateth of it, woe is he— He shall fall pale, and sleep—as I have heard— Long in the shadow of the Cypress tree.