Page:Where the Dead Men Lie.djvu/58

36 There, in the great slab fire-place The oak log, burnt away to coal, Showed him the semblance of a face Framed in a golden aureole: Eyes, the clear windows of a soul— Soul of a maid, who used to sign Herself, 'Jim, dear, your Valentine.'



Lips, whose pink curves were made to bear Love's kisses, not to be the mock Of grave-worms ... Suddenly a whirr, And twelve loud strokes upon the clock; Then at the door a gentle knock. The collie dog began to whine That morn of good Saint Valentine.