It
is not death the martyr makes,
But
that for which he fought; behind all thought
Of
rightful acts is birthed.
Whence
tolled the steeple-bells report
Against
all forces mustered then I raged;
Fired-tongues
cold-defied.
Free
from the fickle fancies of the fates,
Shall
we be said to live outside their reach;
Shown
to stride forever this earth alone,
And
so into our speechless union fade.
Then
when the shadows skyward blaze,
Have
mercy on this whirlwind’s wail we call
This
lovers’ life we lead.
If
only one were to escape,
Then
this beyond all other words would read
The
epitaph of love.
