Page:Where the Dead Men Lie.djvu/66

44 She found it not; nor—though she knelt Upon the scented grass and felt Among its roots, or parted sheaves And peered among the shining leaves— Could it be found. The Box-Tree held Her troth for aye: his great form swelled Until the bitter sap swept through His veins and gave him youth anew.

With busy fingers, lank and thin, The fatal Sisters sit and spin Life's web, in gloomy musings wrapt, Caring not, when a thread is snapt, What harm its severance may do— Whether it strangleth one or two.

Alas! there came an awful space Of time wherein that sweet young face Grew pale, its sharpened outline pressed Deep in the pillow; for a guest, Unsought, unbidden, forced his way Into the chamber where she lay. 'Twas Death! ... Outside the Box-Tree kept Sad vigil, and at times he swept His branches softly, as a thrill Shot through his framework, boding ill To her he loved; and so he bade A bird fly ask her why she stayed. The messenger, with glistening eye, Returned, and said, 'The maid doth lie