On the king's gate the moss grew gray; The king came not. They call'd him dead; And made his eldest son, one day, Slave in his father's stead.
O month when they who love must love and wed.
There is nothing so skillful in its own defense as imperious pride.
When the baby dies, On every side Rose stranger's voices, hard and harsh and loud. The baby was not wrapped in any shroud. The mother made no sound. Her head was bowed That men's eyes might not see Her misery.
Great loves, to the last, have pulses red; All great loves that have ever died dropped dead.
But great loves, to the last, have pulses red; All great loves that have ever died dropped dead.
