“LOCAL FATALITIES ARE REPORTED”
Dangerously sheltered they,
The lovers lay
Upon the great dead hill,
Frail flesh and blood:
Beneath a twisted thorn,
Which to the heaven’s mood
Died and was born
Again, as lightning fell.
Two mites of trembling clay—
Ah, what cared they!
The lightning flashed:
They laughed.
The thunder crashed:
They kissed.
The grey rain lashed
The hill: and hid them in mist.
Did they return again
To the sunny plain,
To spite and scorn,
The plane of mortal care?
Nay, with passions of skies
They mingled were ...
They were made wise
Beneath the twisted thorn.