“I only knew what hunted thought quickened his step, and why

The man had killed the thing he loved and so he had to die.

Some kill their love when they are young, and some when they are old;

Some strangle with the hands of Lust, some with the hands of Gold:

The kindest use a knife, because the dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little, some too long, some sell, and others buy;

Some do the deed with many tears, and some without a sigh:

For each man kills the thing he loves, and so he has to die

We did not dare to breathe a prayer, or give our anguish scope:

Something was dead in each of us, and what was dead was Hope.

And all the woe that moved him so that he gave that bitter cry,

For he who lives more lives than one more deaths than one must die.

In silence let him lie: no need to waste the foolish tear, or heave the windy sigh:

The man had killed the thing he loved, and so he had to die.

Yet all is well; he has but passed to Life’s appointed borne:

For his mourner will be outcast men, and outcasts always mourn.”