Pity It Is To Slay The Meanest

Fuss Is The Froth Of Business.

No Blessed Leisure For Love Or Hope, But Only Time For Grief.

Such A Blush In The Midst Of Brown Was Born, Like Red Poppies Grown With Corn.

Whilst Breezy Waves Toss Up Their Silvery Spray.

Our Very Hopes Belied Our Fears, Our Fears Our Hopes Belied; We Thought Her Dying When She Slept, And Sleeping When She Died.