Heard! Heard! Heard!
The madness of the maiden is absolute,
She hears the voices no one else could know,
The ancient howling harbingers of who will stay and who will go—
The voices tell the maddened maiden so.
The virtue of the maiden, it is absolute-
She sleeps alone on cold, unloving sheets,
A man becomes her suitor—then in diffidence retreats,
And leaves her with her voices and defeats.
The sorrow of the maiden, it is absolute:
For still the voices ring within her ear;
She hears a whispered name of one who dies this very year—
The name—her own!—reiterates so clear.
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