In guilt she told him of our meetings there

Beneath the trees down by the ancient mill;

Long afternoons of summer brought no care

Nor did we heed the keen of whippoorwills.

All love is grand, all stolen apples sweet—

To what is blind, there add yet deaf and dumb.

No greater joy to rage in lust complete

And in soft arms exalt the rising moon.

Soon we would be together evermore…

So read the note the page boy gave to me;

I dropped that paper softly to the floor

Then quickly packed the things that I would need.

I did not hear him draw the fatal dart —

But swift I felt the iron pierce my heart.