To show the black heart bursting into flame.
The crimson evil of a satyr's lips
A sneering nodding finger-post of shame;
A thousand other flowers without a name
Huddle all trembling in the dusk behind
Like hunted ghosts, whose eyes are white and blind.
The grass is not the grass that overhead
Cooled my bare feet with daisies' purest snows;
But thick pale blades, like fingers of the dead
Thrust from forgotten graves upon their foes.