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Poem	We three are on the cedar-shadowed lawn; My friend being third. He who at love once laughed, Is in the weak rib by a fatal shaft Struck through, and tells his passion's bashful dawn And radiant culmination, glorious crown, When 'this' she said: went 'thus': most wondrous she. Our eyes grow white, encountering that we are three, Forgetful; then together we look down. But he demands our blessing; is convinced That words of wedded lovers must bring good. We question; if we dare! or if we should! And pat him, with light laugh. We have not winced. Next, she has fallen. Fainting points the sign To happy things in wedlock. When she wakes, She looks the star that thro' the cedar shakes: Her lost moist hand clings mortally to mine.
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