How tightly the vice of the fist that closes
With fear 'round my breath in lethal doses—
Holds, and holds, and holds.
How missed is she who breathed,
Who raged, and wept, and seethed,
Who dancing, fearless, sang
Her song to all who might have heard,
Whose cry of freedom loudly rang
To every friend of tree and bird.
How full a heart, which, trembling, beat
In rhythm to her dancing feet
Now lies again 'neath earthen lid—
Silent, stolen, stark, and still.
How tightly now is sealed within
Such breath as hers in fleshly cage,
Breath of life, breath of rage—
Hold, and hold, and hold—
The last few breaths of one who may never let them out again:
"Mine, forever—my breath in me forever—
That mayhap I might, one day, once more, live,
And to my voice its sound then give."
How waits she now for the day
When one will pass by and say
"Sing, and rage, and weep, and seethe,
Breathe, oh, it is the time to breathe."
How sings she now from deathly hollows
Songs and sonnets, somber, starless,
Serenading in silence the ears of but spectres—
Songs from the mouth of a spectre.
How sings she now?
How beats her heart, how dances and breathes she now?
One cannot know,
For though it wrong her,
She can no longer.
Where now she is I cannot go,
There where spirits long have borne her—
She whose heart is mine to know.
And for this I, so silent, mourn her.