Page:The ascent of man by Blind, Mathilde.djvu/187

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a lonesome burial-place Crouched a mourner white of face;
 * Wild her eyes—unheeding

Circling pomp of night and day— Ever crying, "Well away,
 * Love lies a-bleedine!"

And her sighs were like a knell, And her tears for ever fell,
 * With their warm rain feeding

That purpureal flower, alas! Trailing prostrate in the grass,
 * Love lies a-bleeding.