Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.

A Very Old Song

“DAUGHTER, thou art come to die:

Sound be thy sleeping, lass.”

“Well: without lament or cry,

Mother, let me pass.”

“What things on mould were best of all?

(Soft be thy sleeping, lass.)”

“The apples reddening till they fall

In the sun beside the convent wall.

Let me pass.”

“Whom on earth hast thou loved best?

(Sound be thy sleeping, lass.)”

“Him that shared with me thy breast;

Thee; and a knight last year our guest.

He hath an heron to his crest.

Let me pass.”

“What leavest thou of fame or hoard?

(Soft be thy sleeping, lass.)

“My far-blown shame for thy reward;

To my brother, gold to get him a sword.

Let me pass.”

“But what wilt leave thy lover, Grim?

(Sound be thy sleeping, lass.)”

“The hair he kissed to strangle him.

Mother, let me pass.”