To kill a man is a woeful thing,But he who lays a hand on spring,Clutches the first bird by its throatAnd throttles it in the midst of a note;Whose breath upon the leaf-proud treeTurns all that wealth to penury;Whose touch upon the first shy flowerGives it a blight before its hour;Whose craven face above a poolThat otherwise were clear and cool,Transforms that running silver dreamInto a hot and sluggish streamThus better fit to countenanceHis own corrupt unhealthy glance,Of all men is most infamous;His deed is rank and blasphemous.The erstwhile warm, the short time sweet,Spring now lay frozen at our feet.Say then, why say nothing moreExcept I had to close the door;And this man's leer loomed in the way.The air began to sting; then sayThere was this branch; I struck; he fell;There's holiday, I think, in hell."
Outside the night began to groanAs heavy feet crushed twig and stone
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