A Murder in the Compound (Rudyard Kipling)
Discoloured grass wherefrom the wild bees flee.
Across the pathway to the flower-bed,
The dark stream struggles forward, lazily,
Blackened by that fierce fervour overhead
She does not heed, to whom the noon tide glare
And the flies' turmoil round her livid lips
Are less account than that green puddle where,
Just out of reach, the turbid water slips
Between the corn-ridge and the siris trees. . . .
The crows are gathered now, and peer and glance
Athwart the branches, and no passer sees,
When Life's last flicker leaves her countenance,
How, merrily, they drop down, one by one,
On that gay-tinted bundle in the sun.