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94

XIV
HIDDEN GRIEF

When Grief had lost his ancient mastery,
One morn I wandered in a forest-dell
Whose floor was tricked with many a trembling bell
And starry blossom far as eye could see.
There grew white violet, pale anemone,
Sweet orchis—all the flowers she loved so well;
But fast-immured in some more secret cell
Sorrow lay bound, and these had not the key.
Anon I turned me where the woodman's axe
Had cleft an opening; there, by trunks laid whole,
Stood piled-up faggots for the burning kept.
One waft of fragrance from the withered stacks
Reached me; a gust of anguish caught my soul;
I bowed my forehead to the earth, and wept.