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Rh Life rocked in her restless arms, while she sucked at her breath— (“Where?” the bells cry, and I dare not reply.)’

‘What would you tell me, my child, my child, that once slept a babe on my breast?’ (Do the death-bells toll for a passing soul?) ‘O mother! my friend is dead, now I stand confessed. I can strike the stone into flame, make the dark give light, But I cannot give back to the tiniest bird its flight. I can easily shut life’s gates, but God alone holds the key; And all the darkness of night cannot shelter me. For my friend, you understand, my friend is dead, So people will pity the tears that my hot eyes shed. No voice to cry “Guilty,” not seeing my brain’s red shame— Not knowing that “Dead,” in my heart, hath another name. He wondered the world should plot him such mischief and pain; Knew not that his world was worked from one jealous man’s brain. Whose hands set in motion the wheels, laid his heart on the rack, Followed ever with murmurs of doubt on his fortunate track,