Page:The Book of the Homeless (New York, Charles Scribner's Sons, 1916).djvu/53

 Oh, how you suffered! How you were afraid! What death-damp hands you locked about your eyes!

You, so insatiably athirst to spend The young desires in your hearts abloom, How could you think the desert was your doom, The waterless fountain and the endless end ?

You yearned not for the face of love, grown dim, But only fought your anguished bones to wrest From the Black Angel crouched upon your breast, Who scanned you ere he led you down with him.