Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916.
In JuneEdward William Thomson (18491924)
From ‘The Canadian Rossignol’
N
Triumphant ’spite of all the pain,—
She cannot hear you, Rossignol,
She does not pause and flush, your thrall.
She does not raise that slender hand
And, poised, lips parted, understand
What you are telling of the years,
Her brown eyes soft with happy tears,
She does not hear a note of all.
Ah, Rossignol, ah, Rossignol!
But skies are blue, and flowers bloom,
And roses breathe the old perfume,
And here the murmuring of the trees
In all of lovelier mysteries—
And may be now she hears the song
Pouring the summer hills along,
Listens with joy that still to me
Remain the summer time and thee.