XXX. SINNER'S RUE
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walked alone and thinking,And faint the nightwind blewAnd stirred on mounds at crosswaysThe flower of sinner's rue. Where the roads part they buryHim that his own hand slays,And so the weed of sorrowSprings at the four cross ways. By night I plucked it hueless,When morning broke 'twas blue:Blue at my breast I fastenedThe flower of sinner's rue. It seemed a herb of healing,A balsam and a sign,Flower of a heart whose troubleMust have been worse than mine. Dead clay that did me kindness,I can do none to you,But only wear for breastknotThe flower of sinner's rue.
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