"Why do you stand in the dripping rye, Cold-lipped, unconscious, wet to the knee, When there are firesides near?" said I.
"I told him I wished him dead," said she.
"Yea, cried it in my haste to one Whom I had loved, whom I well loved still;
And die he did. And I hate the sun, And stand here lonely, aching, chill;
"Stand waiting, waiting under skies That blow reproach, the while I see The rooks sheer off to where he lies Wrapt in a peace withheld from me."