Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916.
On the Death of a RecluseGeorge Darley (17951846)
’M
Where speechless Thought abides,
Still her sweet spirit dwells,
That knew no world besides.
Wound but a creeping flower,
Her very life-blood stains
Thee, in a falling shower.
Her cheek, her breath is known—
Ravish that red rose there,
And she is all thy own.