A Death-Day Recalled
Beeny did not quiver,Juliot grew not gray,Thin Valency’s riverHeld its wonted way.Bos seemed not to utterDimmest note of dirge,Targan mouth a mutterTo its creamy surge.
Yet though these, unheeding,Listless, passed the hourOf her spirit’s speeding,She had, in her flower,Sought and loved the places—Much and often pinedFor their lonely facesWhen in towns confined.
Why did not ValencyIn his purl deploreOne whose haunts were whence heDrew his limpid store?Why did Bos not thunder,Targan apprehendBody and breath were sunderOf their former friend?
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