little cousin is dead, by foul subtraction,
green bough from Virginia's aged tree,
none of the county kin like the transaction,
some of the world of outer dark, like me.
boy not beautiful, nor good, nor clever,
black cloud full of storms too hot for keeping,
sword beneath his mother's heart—yet never
bewept her babe as this is weeping.
pig with a pasty face, so I had said,
for cookies, kinned by poor pretense
a noble house. But the little man quite dead,
see the forbears' antique lineaments.
elder men have strode by the box of death
the wide flag porch, and muttering low send round
bruit of the day. O friendly waste of breath!
hearts are hurt with a deep dynastic wound.
was pale and little, the foolish neighbors say;
first-fruits, saith the Preacher, the Lord hath taken;
this was the old tree's late branch wrenched away,
the sapless limbs, the shorn and shaken.