I see in a vision a woman like her
Trip down an orchard slope,
With rosy prattlers that shout a name
In tones of rapture and hope;
While the yeoman, gazing at children and wife,
Thanks God for the pride and joy of his life.
* * * * * *
Whose conscience is heavy with this dark guilt?
Who pays at the final day
For a wasted body, a murdered soul,