Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916.
If I could hold your handsAnonymous
I
Just for a little while, and know
That only I, of all the world,
Possessed them so.
If I could see you here to-night,
Between me and the twilight pale—
So light and frail.
In one broad sweep of shadow grey;
Your weary head just drooped aside,
That sweet old way.
The darkness crossing half your face,
And just the glimmer of a smile
For one to trace.
Far out into the farthest sky,
Where past the trail of dying suns
The old years lie.
And steal the sadness from their smile,
And find the last kiss they have kept
This weary while!
The restless trouble of my soul
Sets, as the great tides of the moon,
Toward your control!
The eye’s desire and the pain;
The hunger of the heart—O love,
Is it in vain?