Dora Sigerson Shorter

Wirastrua

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 dreaming’s 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.