|There was no beauty in their death She lay prone on the floor,
And he was hanging by the neck Framed in the shed.root door.
Silent, they told their own plain tale, This labourer and his mate,
Her face a stunned and bloody thing, His just like frozen hate,·
And there was meaning in that meal Unfinished in the shed,
Those letters and that broken chair Beside the crazy bed.
1 held the inquest. Nine good men Returned a verdict true,
But we scarce needed witnesses To tell us what to do.
|The Parish was the end of it. What can The Orleans yield After the last mad jealous brawl Except the potter’s field?|