A Fragment
They say that poison-sprinkled flowersAre sweeter in perfumeThan when, untouched by deadly dew,They glowed in early bloom.
They say that men condemned to dieHave quaffed the sweetened wineWith higher relish than the juiceOf the untampered vine.
They say that in the witch’s song,Though rude and harsh it be,There blends a wild, mysterious strainOf weirdest melody.
And I believe the devil’s voiceSinks deeper in our earThan any whisper sent from Heaven,However sweet and clear.
[End of Bush Ballads.]
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS