AN OLD STORY<br><br>I<br><br>It was roses, roses, all the way,<br><br>With myrtle mixed in my path like mad:<br><br>The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway,<br><br>The church-spires flamed, such flags they had,<br><br>A year ago on this very day.<br><br>II<br><br>The air broke into a mist with bells,<br><br>The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries.<br><br>Had I said, "Good folk, mere noise repels—<br><br>But give me your sun from yonder skies!"<br><br>They had answered, "And afterward, what else?"<br><br>III<br><br>Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun<br><br>To give it my loving friends to keep!<br><br>Nought man could do, have I left undone:<br><br>And you see my harvest, what I reap<br><br>This very day, now a year is run.<br>IV<br><br>There's nobody on the house-tops now—<br><br>Just a palsied few at the windows set;<br><br>For the best of the sight is, all allow,<br><br>At the Shambles' Gate—or, better yet,<br><br>By the very scaffold's foot, I trow.<br><br>.......
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