Poems (Eytinge)/A wish

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A WISH.
So thou art dead! Killed by scorning;Born with the roses red, One bright morning;Only a lover's thought, No one blaming,Pity and sorrow taught, His the shaming.
Thou might have made his life Glad with living,Stilled all this soulless strife,— Blest,—forgiving.He would not have it so, Fearful and passion-tossed;One day we both shall know All that a wish has cost.
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