Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916.
To MaryCharles Wolfe (17911823)
I
I might not weep for thee;
But I forgot, when by thy side,
That thou couldst mortal be:
It never through my mind had past
The time would e’er be o’er,
And I on thee should look my last,
And thou shouldst smile no more!
And think ’twill smile again;
And still the thought I will not brook,
That I must look in vain.
But when I speak—thou dost not say
What thou ne’er left’st unsaid;
And now I feel, as well I may,
Sweet Mary, thou art dead!
All cold and all serene—
I still might press thy silent heart,
And where thy smiles have been!
While e’en thy chill, bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own;
But there—I lay thee in thy grave—
And I am now alone!
Thou hast forgotten me;
And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart
In thinking too of thee:
Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light ne’er seen before,
As fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore!