Need ours; she grows like us and waxes strong
When she would seem the prey of death and fools
Are moved to mirth. Yes, when a man lies prone,
The arms erewhile so busy hanging slack,
The eyes imprisoned fast and closed the mouth,
Whose lips are knitted in convulsive twitch
Retaining still perchance a withered roseleaf
As though ’twere greatest treasure—that would give
A sight to raise the laugh of him who wakes
And looks upon it. But were such a man,