Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916.
They are all gone into the world of lightHenry Vaughan (16211695)
T
And I alone sit ling’ring here;
Their very memory is fair and bright,
And my sad thoughts doth clear.
Like stars upon some gloomy grove,
Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest
After the sun’s remove.
Whose light doth trample on my days:
My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,
Mere glimmering and decays.
High as the heavens above!
These are your walks, and you have show’d them me,
To kindle my cold love.
Shining nowhere, but in the dark;
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,
Could man outlook that mark!
At first sight, if the bird be flown;
But what fair well or grove he sings in now,
That is to him unknown.
Call to the soul, when man doth sleep,
So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,
And into glory peep.
Her captived flames must needs burn there;
But when the hand that locked her up gives room,
She’ll shine through all the sphere.
Created glories under thee!
Resume Thy spirit from this world of thrall
Into true liberty.
My perspective still as they pass;
Or else remove me hence unto that hill,
Where I shall need no glass.