An Escort for Rowena
Slender, sharp and jagged Jill,
Always made Rowena laugh,
Always primed her for the kill,
A chisel for the epitaph,
Upon a mausoleum wall,
Behind the statue on the hill,
Whose sunken eyes observeth all,
Whose lips tell nothing, pursed and still.
What is this figure watching dear,
Rowena dig, as steeples call?
The blackest hours all people fear,
Find our sweet lady standing tall.
She fears no darkness, truly now,
An escort she keeps, always near,
Who has endeavored to endow,
Her with a courage, strong and clear.
What is this close companion which,
Belays the hunter from his show,
Of primal justice in the ditch,
Which, in its turn, makes fat the crow?
What chains that monster to the mill,
And covers over thatch with pitch?
Who burns the beast? Rowena's drill,
Now swiftly undoes every stitch.
Sweet crimson streams engendered new,
Vermillion vines upon that hill,
Rowena's garden grew and grew,
Because of ragged, jagged Jill.
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