Poems (Jackson)/A Woman's Death-Wound
T left upon her tender flesh no trace.The murderer is safe. As swift as lightThe weapon fell, and, in the summer night,Did scarce the silent, dewy air displace;'T was but a word. A blow had been less base.Like dumb beast branded by an iron whiteWith heat, she turned in blind and helpless flight,But then remembered, and with piteous faceCame back.Came back.Since then, the world has nothing missedIn her, in voice or smile. But she—each dayShe counts until her dying be complete.One moan she makes, and ever doth repeat:"O lips that I have loved and kissed and kissed,Did I deserve to die this bitterest way?"
A WOMAN'S DEATH-WOUND.
T left upon her tender flesh no trace.The murderer is safe. As swift as lightThe weapon fell, and, in the summer night,Did scarce the silent, dewy air displace;'T was but a word. A blow had been less base.Like dumb beast branded by an iron whiteWith heat, she turned in blind and helpless flight,But then remembered, and with piteous faceCame back.Came back.Since then, the world has nothing missedIn her, in voice or smile. But she—each dayShe counts until her dying be complete.One moan she makes, and ever doth repeat:"O lips that I have loved and kissed and kissed,Did I deserve to die this bitterest way?"