The two were silent in a sunless church,
Whose mildewed walls, uneven paving—stones,
And wasted carvings passed antique research;
And nothing broke the clock’s dull monotones.
Leaning against a wormy poppy—head,
So wan and worn that he could scarcely stand,
—For he was soon to die,—he softly said,
“Tell me you love me!”—holding hard her hand.
She would have given a world to breathe “yes” truly,
So much his life seemed hanging on her mind,
And hence she lied, her heart persuaded throughly,
’Twas worth her soul to be a moment kind.
But the sad need thereof, his nearing death,
So mocked humanity that she shamed to prize
A world conditioned thus, or care for breath
Where Nature such dilemmas could devise.
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