Could we have done the same,
Had we been in your place?—
This funeral of your name
Throws no light on the case.—
Could we have made the chase,
And felt then as you felt?—
But what's this on your face,
Blue, curious, like a welt?
There were some ropes of sand
Recorded long ago,
But none, I understand,
Of water. Is it so?
And she—she struck the blow,
You but a neck behind. . .
You saw the river flow—
Still, shall I call you blind?
[70]
