Page:Ethel Churchill Fragments I.pdf/39



I tell thee death were far more merciful Than such a blow. It is death to the heart; Death to its first affections, its sweet hopes; The young religion of its guileless faith. Henceforth the well is troubled at the spring; The waves run clear no longer; there is doubt To shut out happiness—perpetual shade; Which, if the sunshine penetrate, 'tis dim, And broken ere it reach the stream below.