THE WHIP
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he doubt you fought so long,The cynic net you cast,The tyranny, the wrong,The ruin, they are past;And here you are at last,Your blood no longer vexed.The coffin has you fast,The clod will have you next. But fear you not the clod,Nor ever doubt the grave:The roses and the sodWill not forswear the wave.The gift the river gaveIs now but theirs to cover:The mistress and the slaveAre gone now, and the lover. You left the two to findTheir own way to the brink:Then--shall I call you blind?--You chose to plunge and sink.God knows the gall we drinkIs not the mead we cry for,Nor was it, I should think--For you--a thing to die for. Could we have done the same,Had we been in your place?--This funeral of your nameThrows no light on the case.--Could we have made the chase,And felt then as you felt?--But what’s this on your face,Blue, curious, like a welt? There were some ropes of sandRecorded long ago,But none, I understand,Of water. Is it so?And she--she struck the blow,You but a neck behind....You saw the river flow--Still, shall I call you blind?
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