Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916.
The ApparitionStephen Phillips (18681915)
‘God gives me one hour’s rest,
To spend upon the earth with thee:
How shall we spend it best?’
We quarrelled as of old.
But when I turned to make my peace,
That one short hour was told.
The heaven was filled with rain;
And as it fell, and fell, I said,
‘She will not come again.’
But in a strange attire;
Weary she seemed, and very faint,
As though she came from fire.
The sun fell on my head:
And it was not an hour in which
We think upon the dead.
Her voice, much more her cry;
And close beside me a great rose
Had just begun to die.
Of her I was aware:
She cried out, like a creature hurt,
Close by me in the air.
I turned from side to side;
When she came in and sat with me,
As though she had not died.
She had her ancient way;
Remembered how I liked her hand
Amid my hair to stray.
Older she seemed, and still:
All quietly she took my kiss,
Even as a mother will.
She turned as if to go:
But then again came back to me;
My eyes implored her so!
And looked into my eyes.
‘I live in calm,’ she said, ‘and there
Am learning to be wise.
Still turning on this bed.’
‘And art thou happy?’ I exclaimed.
‘Alas!’ she sighed, and fled.
With wonder on her face.
She came toward me, very bright,
As from a blessèd place.
And softly as before.
‘They gave me drink from some slow stream;
I love thee now no more.’
Her face was wild with fear:
‘Old friend,’ she said, ‘I am pursued,
May I take refuge here?’