We played in this garden, long ago,
Long ago! Wind stirs the young grasses;
Petals drift from the apple-boughs,
Like snow, that covers up everything,
Everything!
Long ago! Wind stirs the young grasses;
Petals drift from the apple-boughs,
Like snow, that covers up everything,
Everything!
THE BELOVED
(To the Countess of Kintore)
Love, when they told me you were dead, I replied not; I smiled, and they thought me mad.
They wept anointing thy body, they swathed thee in linen bands and laid thee in the earth.
Their hands touched thee as a thing sacred, they mourned for thee with shaken hearts.
It was dawn, my beloved, and they came in, into my room, where I lay close to sleep smiling, and they told me you were dead.
I smiled hearing the swallows coming and going under the eaves, and they told me you were dead.
The earth dreamed in dews, the sheep were in the pastures, and they told me you were dead.
They wept anointing thy body, they swathed thee in linen bands and laid thee in the earth.
Their hands touched thee as a thing sacred, they mourned for thee with shaken hearts.
It was dawn, my beloved, and they came in, into my room, where I lay close to sleep smiling, and they told me you were dead.
I smiled hearing the swallows coming and going under the eaves, and they told me you were dead.
The earth dreamed in dews, the sheep were in the pastures, and they told me you were dead.
O my beloved, these knew thee not.
Certain of these poems have appeared in The Spectator, Poetry, The Forum, The Quest, and The Windsor Magazine. My thanks are due to the Editors of these periodicals for permission to reprint them.
PRINTED BY
HAZELL, WATSON AND VINEY, LD.,
LONDON AND AYLESBURY,
ENGLAND.
Transcriber’s Note:
This book was transcribed directly from the original book, with no corrections made.