Explore "At the Eleventh Hour" by Ambrose Bierce on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
As through the blue expanse he skims / On joyous wings, the late / Frank Hutchings overtakes Miss Sims, / Both bound for Heaven's high gate.
In life they loved and (God knows why / A lover so should sue) / He slew her, on the gallows high / Died pious -- and they flew.
Her pinions were bedraggled, soiled / And torn as by a gale, / While his were bright -- all freshly oiled / The feathers of his tail.
Her visage, too, was stained and worn / And menacing and grim; / His sweet and mild -- you would have sworn / That "she" had murdered "him".
When they'd arrived before the gate / He said to her: "My dear, / 'Tis hard once more to separate, / But "you" can't enter here.
"For you, unluckily, were sent / So quickly to the grave / You had no notice to repent, / Nor time your soul to save."
"Tis true," said she, "and I should wail / In Hell even now, but I / Have lingered round the county jail / To see a Christian die."