Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916.
Sonnet: Sweet soul, which in the April of thy yearsWilliam Drummond of Hawthornden (15851649)
S
So to enrich the heaven mad’st poor this round,
And now with golden rays of glory crown’d
Most blest abid’st above the sphere of spheres;
If heavenly laws, alas! have not thee bound
From looking to this globe that all upbears,
If ruth and pity there above be found,
O deign to lend a look unto these tears.
Do not disdain, dear ghost, this sacrifice,
And though I raise not pillars to thy praise,
Mine offerings take; let this for me suffice,
My heart a living pyramid I raise;
And whilst kings’ tombs with laurels flourish green,
Thine shall with myrtles, and these flow’rs be seen.