Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916.
Song: That zephyr every yearWilliam Drummond of Hawthornden (15851649)
—T
So soon was heard to sigh in forests here,
It was for her: that wrapt in gowns of green
Meads were so early seen,
That in the saddest months oft sung the merles,
It was for her; for her trees dropp’d forth pearls.
That proud and stately courts
Did envy those our shades and calm resorts,
It was for her; and she is gone, O woe!
Woods cut again do grow,
Bud doth the rose and daisy, winter done;
But we, once dead, no more do see the sun….
Blush no more, rose, nor, lily, pale remain,
Dead is that beauty which yours late did stain.