 | Fand and Other Poems |  |
It could not have been long that I thus lay:
It might have been a moment, month, or year,
For all I knew: the suffering one, whose brain
Lies boiling on the fever furnace, knows not
The count of hours or days: no more knew I,
Stunned, smitten, and torn; the heart of all my life
Plucked from my bleeding breast, and I alive.
It might have been a moment, month, or year,
23
Lies boiling on the fever furnace, knows not
The count of hours or days: no more knew I,
Stunned, smitten, and torn; the heart of all my life
Plucked from my bleeding breast, and I alive.
| Fand and Other Poems | |