I am being accused of loving you, that is all.
My eye was devoted to seeing, my lip was prone to speak;
Lifting up my troubled face
- Oh, I could shriek and tear my hair -
I only look down at my bony hands.
My sister is angry!
Entreat her not. Indeed, she will not speak!
Troy in dust and ashes lay,
Dead love, by treason slain, lies stark
Between the sob and clubbing of gunfire.
Happy the friends, who Death cannot divide.

I loved you more than luck or grief.

íTis a nameless stone that stands at your head
In a waste of gravel and sand;
Crookedly the track runs beneath the grassy skies-
The cattle are roaming the ranges astray;
Gestures, stiff in death, become the touch of brotherhood.
The Poet's soul could not endure,
To be a book of tears
The Prince of Courtesy is dead.
In life, much sorrow came to him,
The warrior-boy lay low.
O gracious ones! No more, no more, shall ye
Dance upon the Mazer's brim,
This land is ours by right of birth.



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