Indian Tales

User: disha
Indian Tales

To Love's Low Voice She Lent A Careless Ear;
Her Hand Within His Rosy Fingers Lay,
A Chilling Weight. She Would Not Turn Or Hear;
But With Averted Face Went On Her Way.
But When Pale Death, All Featureless And Grim,
Lifted His Bony Hand, And Beckoning
Held Out His Cypress-Wreath, She Followed Him,
And Love Was Left Forlorn And Wondering,
That She Who For His Bidding Would Not Stay,
At Death's First Whisper Rose And Went Away.

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