Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916.
In the ShadowsDavid Gray (1838–1861)
O
The weary rain falls ceaseless, while the day
Is wrapp’d in damp. In mire of village way
The hedge-row leaves are stamped; and, all forgot,
The broodless nest sits visible in the thorn.
Autumn, among her drooping marigolds,
Weeps all her garnered sheaves, and empty folds,
And dripping orchards—plundered and forlorn.
The season is a dead one, and I die!
No more, no more for me the Spring shall make
A resurrection in the earth, and take
The death from out her heart—O God, I die!
The cold throat-mist creeps nearer, till I breathe
Corruption. Drop, stark night, upon my death!