Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
A Very Old SongWilliam Laird
“D
Sound be thy sleeping, lass.”
“Well: without lament or cry,
Mother, let me pass.”
(Soft be thy sleeping, lass.)”
“The apples reddening till they fall
In the sun beside the convent wall.
Let me pass.”
(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.”
(Soft be thy sleeping, lass.)
“My far-blown shame for thy reward;
To my brother, gold to get him a sword.
Let me pass.”
(Sound be thy sleeping, lass.)”
“The hair he kissed to strangle him.
Mother, let me pass.”