She made a little shadow-hidden grave
—The day Faith died;
Therein she laid it, heard the clod's sick fall,
—And smiled aside—
“If less I ask,” tear-blind, she mocked, “I may
—Be less denied.”

She set a rose to blossom in her hair,
—The day Faith died—
“Now glad,” she said, “and free at last, I go,
—And life is wide.”
But through long nights she stared into the dark,
—And knew she lied.