Newton MacTavish (1875–1941)

THEN by the glass how swift the sand set speed,

How softly-swift the sand that marked the hour

When Barbara fetched to me the spirit-mead

And urged me to my solitary bower!

I saw her then; I held her hand in mine,

And all was sweet within the wondrous hour

When Barbara raised the ruddy, ardent wine,

And bade me seek my solitary bower.

And soon we thought to turn the wasted glass,

As, man and wife, we scorned the fleeting hour,

And drank of happiness—for us, alas!

Too deep within the sense-seducing bower.

*****

Now by the glass how slow the sand sets speed,

How softly-slow the sand that marks the hour

When I, no Barbara to pledge Love’s mead,

Go heartsick to my solitary bower.