“LOCAL FATALITIES ARE REPORTED”

Dangerously sheltered they, The lovers lay Upon the great dead hill, Frail flesh and blood: Beneath a twisted thorn, Which to the heaven’s mood Died and was born Again, as lightning fell. Two mites of trembling clay— Ah, what cared they! The lightning flashed: They laughed. The thunder crashed: They kissed. The grey rain lashed The hill: and hid them in mist. Did they return again To the sunny plain, To spite and scorn, The plane of mortal care? Nay, with passions of skies They mingled were ... They were made wise Beneath the twisted thorn.