Fabien Dei Franchi

THE silent room, the heavy creeping shade

The dead that travel fast, the opening door

The murdered brother rising through the floor

The ghost's white fingers on thy shoulders laid

And then the lonely duel in the glade

The broken swords, the stifled scream, the gore

Thy grand revengeful eyes when all is o'er,--

These things are well enough,--but thou wert made