Beeny did not quiver, Juliot grew not gray, Thin Valency's river Held its wonted way.
Bos seemed not to utter Dimmest note of dirge, Targan mouth a mutter To its creamy surge.
Yet though these, unheeding, Listless, passed the hour Of her spirit's speeding, She had, in her flower, Sought and loved the places -
Much and often pined For their lonely faces When in towns confined.
Why did not Valency In his purl deplore One whose haunts were whence he Drew his limpid store?
Why did Bos not thunder, Targan apprehend Body and breath were sunder Of their former friend?
