Page:Carroll - Phantasmagoria and other poems (1869).djvu/187

Rh For hers was now my heart, she said,
 * The heart that once had been mine own:

And in my breast I bore instead
 * A cold cold heart of stone.

So grew the morning overhead.

The sun shot downward through the trees
 * His old familiar flame;

All ancient sounds upon the breeze
 * From copse and meadow came—
 * But I was not the same.

They call me mad; I smile, I weep,
 * Uncaring how or why:

Yea, when one's heart is laid asleep,
 * What better than to die?

So that the grave be dark and deep.