 | The Collected Poems of T. W. H. Crosland |  |
32
For Remembrance
What wife had he, what sweetheart, what fair love?
So will the gossips ask themselves when Fame
Shall set her impudent lips upon my name
And make an auction for your cast-off glove.
They know you not. You are a brooding dove,
Whose spirit, fearful of the world's sharp flame,
Nestles unto the goodness whence it came,
And hath nor wish to range nor will to rove.
So will the gossips ask themselves when Fame
Shall set her impudent lips upon my name
And make an auction for your cast-off glove.
They know you not. You are a brooding dove,
Whose spirit, fearful of the world's sharp flame,
Nestles unto the goodness whence it came,
And hath nor wish to range nor will to rove.
Yet, that through dusty Time you may not pass
Unpictured, unenshrined, or unadored,
I build this turret of eternal brass,
Wherein, so long as word may chime with word,
You are to sit before your jewelled glass
Beautiful as the Garden of the Lord.
Unpictured, unenshrined, or unadored,
I build this turret of eternal brass,
Wherein, so long as word may chime with word,
You are to sit before your jewelled glass
Beautiful as the Garden of the Lord.
| The Collected Poems of T. W. H. Crosland | |