Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916.
RequiescatMatthew Arnold (18221888)
S
And never a spray of yew!
In quiet she reposes;
Ah! would that I did too.
She bathed it in smiles of glee.
But her heart was tired, tired,
And now they let her be.
In mazes of heat and sound;
But for peace her soul was yearning,
And now peace laps her round.
It flutter’d and fail’d for breath;
To-night it doth inherit
The vasty hall of death.