THE FETCH
59
And all white she was as the dead are.
And never a move made she,
But passed him by in her lone black pall.
Still sleeping so peacefully.
And all cold she was as the dead are,
And never a word she spake,
When they said, “Unholy is her grave
For she her life did take.”
And silent she was as the dead are,
And never a cry she made,
When there came, more sad than the keening,
The ring of a digging spade.
No rest she had in the old town church.
No grave by the lake so sweet,
They buried her in unholy ground,
Where the four cross roads do meet.
