Into a tiny vase; a trinket—smooth,
Pretty enough—but fit to hold a rose
Upon some shrewd collector’s cabinet.
Toward that small moon the wild tides of his love
Reared up, and fell back, moaning; and he died
Asking his heart why love was agony.
And she? She loved the best she could, I think,
And wondered sometimes—but not overmuch—
At poor John’s queer, unseemly violence.