Explore "The Leaping Poll" by Hervey Allen on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
At early morning when the earth grows cold, / When river mists creep up, / And those asleep are nearest death, / She died.
The feather would not flutter in her breath; / And those who long had watched her slipped away, / Too weary then to weep; / They could do that next day -- / They left her lonely on the bed, / Under a long, glistening sheet, in feeble tallow-shine, / Rigid from muffled feet to swathed head.