The Bride's Cave In the mute cave of vertical whited,with strange striations arbitrary scratched,Two tenderly hands with belt of nailscatches the salt curtain, and climbsScraped is the forehead which wear the wreath,and pallid are the cheeks which tearfulness hangs upShe's running of rude, and she's running with fearof a no fault she has...poor little creatureUselessly the secret love calls her to temper...she has...... Source : Literature Database
