Wirastrua
By Dora Sigerson Shorter
Wirastrua, wirastrua, woe to me that you are dead!
The corpse has spoken from out his bed,
Yesternight my burning brain
Throbbed and beat on the strings of pain:
Now I rest, all my dreamings done,
In the world behind the sun.
Yesterday I toiled full sore,
To-day I ride in a coach and four.
Yesternight in the streets I lay,
To-night with kings, and as good as they.
Wirastrua! wirastrua! would I were lying as cold as you.