![](https://s3images.coroflot.com/user_files/individual_files/1188691_zwmlhzzuembtgaekgwx3eqneh.png)
Those willing hands—they’re still to-night—
![](https://s3images.coroflot.com/user_files/individual_files/1188691_p5ele6ivql4hiboa6jwvqwayr.png)
The life has from them fled;
They’re folded from the longing sight,
So cold and pale and dead.
![](https://s3images.coroflot.com/user_files/individual_files/1188691_dvnvdrga7v57a0bnflpj3luoe.png)
The busy veins have idle grown,
Like a long famished rill,
![](https://s3images.coroflot.com/user_files/individual_files/1188691_o5wuiqjj043x9srjgfukhnvar.jpg)
That once in such an eager tone
Called soft from hill to hill.
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