Page:Poetical works of Mathilde Blind.djvu/458

432 My heart, sore stricken by grief's leaden arm,

Lags like a weary pilgrim knocking late,

And sigheth—toward thee staggering with its weight—

Behold Love conquered by thy son, the worm!

He stung him mid the roses' purple bloom,

The Rose of roses, yea, a thing so sweet,

Haply to stay blind Change's flying feet,

And stir with pity the unpitying tomb.

Here, take him, cold, cold, heavy and void of breath!

Nor me refuse, Mother almighty, death.

DESPAIR.