Page:Verses–Blanche·Baughan-1898.pdf/42



THE Terrace is full of sun, And holds warm air. Invalids, day by day, Take refuge there.

Here stands one in his prime, And begs for breath. Yonder a fair girl walks In step with Death.

Children move here on crutches; Some, not at all. None are too grown to be ill, And none too small.—

—Among the dying babies And dying men, The merry crocuses bloom; Spring’s back again!