and writhe and twist in the wind he ll never walk with a bullet in his heart, and an ash stick nailing him to the cold, black ground Six months he lay still. Six months. And the water welled up in his body and soft blue spots chequered it. He lay still, for the ash stick held him in place. Six months! Then her face came out of a mist of green Pink and white and frail like Dresden china, lilies-of-the -valley at her breast, puce-coloured silk sheening about her. Under he young green leaves, the horse at a foot-pace, the high yellow wheels of the chaise scarcely turning, her face, rippling like grain a-blowing, under her puce-coloured bonnet; and burning beside her, flaming within his correct blue coat and brass buttons is someone what has dimmed the sun? The horse steps on a rolling stone a wind in the branches makes a moanand writhe, and twist in the wind. He'll never walk with a bullet in his heart, and an ash stick nailing him to the cold, black ground. Six months he lay still. Six months. And the water welled up in his body, and soft blue spots chequered it. He lay still, for the ash stick held him in place. Six months! Then her face came out of a mist of green. Pink and white and frail like Dresden china, lilies-of-the-valley at her breast, puce-coloured silk sheening about her. Under the young green leaves, the horse at a foot-pace, the high yellow wheels of the chaise scarcely turning, her face, rippling like grain a-blowing, under her puce-coloured bonnet; and burning beside her, flaming within his correct blue coat and brass buttons, is someone. What has dimmed the sun? The horse steps on a rolling stone; a wind in the branches makes a moan