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OVER
57
OVER
WITH the blood of my heart on my hand
As the wind goes over the hill,
Very quiet I stand
At your darkened window-sill.
Does the rain that beats on your roof,
Thro' your dreams send not one cry?
In all the world is there no reproof
For your thoughtless cruelty?
Do you see on the shore of dreams
In the misty nebulous land
A bowed phantom who seems
To carry blood on his hand?
Do you hear as the pale rain drifts
Over yellow poppies and graves,
A desperate pleading that lifts
Its voice above the waves?
The voice of the love that your frown
Has driven from human breath,
Do you hear it wandering up and down
Over the country and over the town,
From the reedy shores of death?
