 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
203
ROSALIND
Bury my summer love in a summer grave,
Under the roses, close to the murmuring wave,
Sigh but one sigh as he slips from sight, no more;
Then your foot to the stretcher, your hand to the oar.
Under the roses, close to the murmuring wave,
Sigh but one sigh as he slips from sight, no more;
Then your foot to the stretcher, your hand to the oar.
It was his will to come when the woods were green;
Smiling, delaying, he stepped the elms between,
I sat musing, the boat swung loose in the tide,
Then as I wondered, he slipped with a smile to my side.
Smiling, delaying, he stepped the elms between,
I sat musing, the boat swung loose in the tide,
Then as I wondered, he slipped with a smile to my side.
Green were the streamers that swayed in the water cool,
Mute were the grave-eyed fish that poised in the pool,
Deep, how deep, were the heavens of sapphire blue.
He was tender: I cared not if he were true.
Mute were the grave-eyed fish that poised in the pool,
Deep, how deep, were the heavens of sapphire blue.
He was tender: I cared not if he were true.
While we floated, the dumb boat jarred on the bank,
Chilly the breeze crept up, and the red sun sank,
That was the end I knew, when he stepped to the side;—
Yet, ah yet, was it he or I that died?
Chilly the breeze crept up, and the red sun sank,
That was the end I knew, when he stepped to the side;—
Yet, ah yet, was it he or I that died?
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |