Classic Poem

Wearily I leaned my head
Against your shoulder; not a word
Was heard
Or said.

As fragile fingers clutching anxiously
Call forth no answer from the silent urn,
So from the valley of deep mystery
No dead love shall return.

We were right glad at last to part,
And very wise—
But, when with sudden start
You felt in me the tears of pity rise,
A gleam of hate came to your eyes,
And there was murder in your heart!