How deadly the blow I received
When of thee, O my darling, bereaved!
No more up the hill I shall bound,
No strength in my poor foot is found;
No joy o'er my visage shall break
'Till from out the cold earth I awake.
Of the corn like the very top grain,
Or the pine 'mongst the shrubs of the plain,
Or the moon 'mongst the starlets above,
Went thou amongst women, my love!
* * * * *
LONDON:
Printed for THOMAS J. WISE, Hampstead, N.W.
_Edition limited to Thirty Copies_
Footnote:
{13} Vidrik's sword.