And,
“How did’st thou win her, Death? Thou art the only rival that ever made her cold to me.”
And,
“Wan Silence lying, lip on ground. An outcast Angel from the heaven of sound, Prone and desolate By the shut Gate.”
One more selection, and we leave off:
“Look out Death, I am coming, Art thou not glad? What talks we’ll have, What mem’ries of old battles. Come, bring the bowl, Death; I am thirsty.”
This is no “Outline”; it is a complete poem, a terribly complete poem. Like the flash in a night of storm, it lights up a world of raging elements and universal gloom.
“Pokahuntas, Maid of Jamestown.”
By Anne Sanford Green.