Of thy blue eyes; I could not brook
The past all pleading in one look
Of utter sorrow, Rosaline!
I did not know when thou wert dead:
A blackbird whistling overhead
Thrilled through my brain; I would have fled
But dared not leave thee, Rosaline!
A low, low moan, a light twig stirred
By the upspringing of a bird,
A drip of blood,—were all I heard—