The Ascent of Man/Poem 40

by Mathilde Blind

IX.

 

In a lonesome burial-place
Crouched a mourner white of face;
Wild her eyes—unheeding
Circling pomp of night and day—
Ever crying, "Well away,
Love lies a-bleedine!"

And her sighs were like a knell,
And her tears for ever fell,
With their warm rain feeding
That purpureal flower, alas!
Trailing prostrate in the grass,
Love lies a-bleeding.

Through the yews' black-tufted gloom
Crimson light dripped on the tomb,
Funeral shadows breeding:
In the sky the sun's light shed
Dyed the earth one awful red—
Love lies a-bleeding.

Came grey mists, and blanching cloud
Bore one universal shroud;
Came the bowed moon leading,
From the infinite afar
Star that rumoured unto star—
Love lies a-bleeding.