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Rosa Decidua

…ne limb is dead In feeling as in motion. This remains To ask : Will all catch death—how soon ? This head Excites its miserable brains To think the word it knows by intellect To be the right word—pity ! Then reflect : “ Pitiful ! Pitiful ! most pitiful ! The pity of it ! Think of the love past, Blossoms too beautiful ! Think of the hardships conquered comrade-wise ! Think of the babe and its most piteous end ! ” —All these things sound like lies. I do not comprehend Anything of them—“ Pity ! pity ! pity ! ” ’Tis like the dripping of some stagnan…