On my death bed, when my legs and limbs are weak
When my throat is too narrow to swallow bolus of meal
When I struggle to catch breath in my mouth, and the sound of my shallow heart beat fills the room
On that bed that looks like my passage to the grave and draws me closer to my ancestors ...
LADY, in thy proud eyes
There is a weary look,
As if the spirit we know through them
Were daunted with rebuke
To think that the heart of man henceforth
Is read like a read book.
Lady, in thy lifted face
The solitude is sore;
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