Page:Where the Dead Men Lie.djvu/68

46 The silken fibres gently press Upon her lips a chill caress: They wreathe her waist: they brush her hair: Under her pallid eyelids stare: Yet all in vain; she will not wake— Not even for her lover's sake. The Box-Tree groaned aloud and cried: Ah, me! grim Death hath stole my bride. Where is she hidden? Where hath flown Her soul? I cannot bide alone; But fain would follow.'

Then he called And whispered to an ant that crawled Upon a bough; and bade it seek The white-ant colony and speak A message where, beneath a dome Of earth, the white queen hath her home. She sent a mighty army forth That fall upon the tree in wrath, And, entering by a tiny hole, Fill all the hollow of his bole; Through all its pipes and crannies pour; Sharp at his aching heart-strings tore; Along his branches built a maze Of sinuous, earthen-covered ways. His smooth leaves shrunk, his sap ran dry The sunbeams laughing from the sky Helped the ant workers at their toil, Sucking all moisture from the soil.