So thou art dead!
Killed by scorning;
Born with the roses red,
One bright morning;
Only a lover's thought,
No one blaming,
Pity and sorrow taught,
His the shaming.
Thou might have made his life
Glad with living,
Stilled all this soulless strife,—
Blest,—forgiving.
He would not have it so,
Fearful and passion-tossed;
One day we both shall know
All that a wish has cost.