Stately pines in Night's crimson Deep
Whisper a rustling song...
Gleaming steel, and warriors two
Beneath the weeping moon
With eyes a'dew and locked, embrace
The poetry of Death...
Alas the final shuddering as flesh
Gives home to sword,
"Tis done, 'tis done! Love's wage is paid-
The body's struggling dignity...
Upright no more, in blood awash,
Yet even then that silent reaching-
Grasping for his "Other,"
With heart a'twain and sorely cleaved,
He gasps that name which was his soul,
Beloved! See my troth!
The forest bows to reverence,
But nay, the thing's not done...
As flashing drops a pristine blade
In firmest grip of youth-strong hands,
And honor's deed's discharged...
Silence now, in clouded clamour,
As nary a sound escapes,
Save the gentle meeting of a
Fallen tear upon a leaf at the "Other's" feet...
Copyright © Michael Grugan