Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895. 1895.
Lady Mary Montgomerie Currie b. 184Afterwards
I
This oaten pipe, whereon the wild winds play’d
Making sad music,—tatter’d and outfray’d,
Cast off, play’d out,—can hold no more of good,
Of love, or song, or sense of sun and shade.
’Neath the black yews) I know I shall not know,
Nor take account of changing winds that blow,
Shifting the golden arrow, set on high
On the gray spire, nor mark who come and go.
Nor share my rest with uncongenial dead,—
Somewhere, maybe, where friendly feet will tread,—
As if from out some little chink of space
Mine eyes might see them tripping overhead.
Seem twinkling daisy buds, and meadow grass;
And so, would more than serve me, lest they pass
Who fain would know what woman rested there,
What her demeanor, or her story was,—
(Fenced round with ironwork to keep secure)
Should sleep a form with folded palms demure,
In aspect like the dreamer that was gone,
With these words carv’d, “I hop’d, but was not sure.”