Page:The town down the river; a book of poems.djvu/83

 But fear you not the clod, Nor ever doubt the grave: The roses and the sod Will not forswear the wave. The gift the river gave Is now but theirs to cover: The mistress and the slave Are gone now, and the lover.

You left the two to find Their own way to the brink: Then—shall I call you blind?— You chose to plunge and sink. God knows the gall we drink Is not the mead we cry for, Nor was it, I should think— For you—a thing to die for.