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It was roses, roses all the way, With myrtle mixed in my path like mad: The house roofs seemed to heave and sway, The church spires flamed, such flags they had A year ago on this very day. The air broke into a mist with bells, The old wall rocked with the crowd and cries. Had I said, "Good folk, mere noise repels— But give me your sun from yonder skies!" They had answered, "And afterward, what else?" Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun To give it to my loving friends to keep; Naught man could do, have I left undone: And you see my harvest, what I reap This very day, now a year is run. There's nobody on the housetops now— Just a palsied few at the windows set; For the best of the sight is, all allow, At the Shambles Gate—or, better yet, By the very scaffold's foot, I trow. I go in the rain, and, more than needs, A rope cuts both my wrists behind; And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds, For they fling, whoever has a mind, Stones at me for my year's misdeeds. Thus I entered, and thus I go! In triumphs, people have dropped down dead. "Paid by the world, what dost thou owe Me?"—God might question; now instead, 'Tis God shall repay: I am safer so. |