Page:Poems and ballads (IA poemsballads00swinrich).pdf/324

 Is heard by people of the meadow-grass, Or ever a wandering waif of ruin pass With whirling stones and foam of the brown stream Flaked with fierce yellow: so beholding him She felt before tears came her eyelids wet, Saw the face deadly thin where life was yet, Heard his throat's harsh last moan before it clomb: And he, with close mouth passionate and dumb, Burned at her lips: so lay they without speech, Each grasping other, and the eyes of each Fed in the other's face: till suddenly He cried out with a little broken cry This word, "O help me, sweet, I am but dead." And even so saying, the colour of fair red Was gone out of his face, and his blood's beat Fell, and stark death made sharp his upward feet And pointed hands: and without moan he died. Pain smote her sudden in the brows and side, Strained her lips open and made burn her eyes: For the pure sharpness of her miseries She had no heart's pain, but mere body's wrack; But at the last her beaten blood drew back Slowly upon her face, and her stunned brows Suddenly grown aware and piteous Gathered themselves, her eyes shone, her hard breath Came as though one nigh dead came back from death;