Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916.
As thus OppressedHenry Kirke White (17851806)
A
(Though young yet sorrowful) I turn my feet
To the dark woodland, longing much to greet
The form of Peace, if chance she sojourn there;
Deep thought and dismal, verging to despair,
Fills my sad breast, and tired with this vain coil,
I shrink dismayed before life’s upland toil.
And as amid the leaves the evening air
Whispers still melody, I think ere long,
When I no more can hear, these woods will speak;
And then a sad smile plays upon my cheek,
And mournful phantasies upon me throng,
And I do ponder with most strange delight
On the calm slumbers of the dead man’s night.