Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916.
Maritae SuaeWilliam Benjamin Philpot (18231889)
Thou only saw’st the head
Of that unopen’d drop of snow
I placed beside thy bed.
Thou hast no further part,
Save those, the hour I saw thee last,
I laid above thy heart.
A primrose blown for me,
Wreathed with one often-play’d-with curl
From each bright head for thee.
And made these tokens fast
With that old silver heart I gave,
My first gift—and my last.
Here she might lie and calmly rest
Her happy eyes on that far hill
That backs the landscape fresh and still.
Where careless birds of love carouse,
And gaze those apple-blossoms through
To revel in the boundless blue.
Is elder sister to the light,
And travels free and unconfined
Through dense and rare, through form and mind.
Hath found new channels full and meet—
Then, O, what eyes are leaning o’er,
If fairer than they were before!