Page:Carroll - Three Sunsets.djvu/24

THREE SUNSETS And pity filled her gentle breast
 * For him that would not stir nor speak

The dying crimson of the west,
 * That faintly tinged his haggard cheek,

Fell on her as she stood, and shed A glory round the patient head. Ah, let him wake! The moments fly:
 * This awful tryst may be the last.

And see, the tear, that dimmed her eye,
 * Had fallen on him ere she passed—

She passed: the crimson paled to gray And hope departed with the day.

The heavy hours of night went by,
 * And silence quickened into sound,

And light slid up the eastern sky,
 * And life began its daily round—

But light and life for him were fled: His name was numbered with the dead. Nov. 1861.

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