"She slaughtered Birds of Paradise,
And little cared for all day long
Save silencing the whirr of wings,
And the trill of song.
VII.
"She found the task of relish sweet;
The warbling wildwood choir she slew.
Till the larks were mute, and the linnets dead,
And the robins few.
VIII.
"She took me to her milliner's
And showed with glee a sight full sore,
Her new mixed plume, with aureoles six,
And egrets four.
IX.
"'Twas there she lulled all love asleep,
And her heart grew hard—ah, woe betide!—
As the granite-boulder that gleameth white
On the cold hill-side.
X.
"I saw dead songsters heaped to view.
From field, wood, mere, came one sad call:
They cried, 'La Belle Dame sans Merci
Will slay us all!'
XI.