 | The Collected Poems of T. W. H. Crosland |  |
34
For Stephen Phillips
Now you are dead and past the bitter fret
And the long doubt and the disputed throne,
And the contempts which turn the heart to stone,—
Who that hath wit shall breathe you a regret?
Who that hath tears shall pay you pity's debt?
Unto your place of easing you are gone,
Having fetched for us Beauty from her own
Lodges of gold by silver orchards set.
And the long doubt and the disputed throne,
And the contempts which turn the heart to stone,—
Who that hath wit shall breathe you a regret?
Who that hath tears shall pay you pity's debt?
Unto your place of easing you are gone,
Having fetched for us Beauty from her own
Lodges of gold by silver orchards set.
O mortal man that looked in angels' eyes
And still of baseness took both rood and reed,
Griever who wed bright visions to great sounds,
Teller of sorrowful proud histories;
We put our silly fingers in your wounds
And it is well that they no longer bleed.
And still of baseness took both rood and reed,
Griever who wed bright visions to great sounds,
Teller of sorrowful proud histories;
We put our silly fingers in your wounds
And it is well that they no longer bleed.
| The Collected Poems of T. W. H. Crosland | |