Away, away

Away, away, it is the air

That stirs among the withered leaves;

Away, away, it is not there,

Go, hunt among the harvest sheaves.

There is a bed in shape as plain

As from a hare or lion's lair

It is the bed where we have lain

In anguish and despair.

Away, and take the eagle's eyes,

The tiger's smell,

Ears that can hear the agonies

And murmurings of hell;

And when you there have stood

By that same bed of pain,

The groans are gone, the tears remain.

Then tell me if the thing be clear,

The difference betwixt a tear

Of water and of blood.