Smiled scorn on dark Death and Disaster.
X.
AH! now the orchard's leaves are sear,
Drip not with starlight-litten dew;
Green-drowned no moon-bright fruit hangs here;
Dead, dead your long, white lilies too—
And you, Allita, where are you!"
Then comes her dim touch, faintly warm;
Cool hair sense on my feverish cheek;