Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916.
Ex humoAnonymous
S
Of youth and morning, no more to return,—
Forget not me, so fond and passionate-hearted,
Quiet at last reposing
Under the moss and fern.
Comes circling round the reddening churchyard pines,
Rest—and call back the hours we lost together
Talking of hope, and soaring
Beyond poor Earth’s confines.
You become false—why, ’tis a story old;
I, overcome by pain, and unrequited,
Faded at last, and slumber
Under the Autumn mould.
Doomed for a day to sigh for sweet return;
One lives indeed; one heart the green earth covers—
Quiet at last—reposing
Under the moss and fern.