 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
LIFE AND DEATH.
How is it then with her? I think 't is well:
She hath no memory of days that were;
Her soul is vexed by no importunate prayer.
Love bowed beside her when on sleep she fell;
No wanderer knocketh at her gates to tell
Of things she would not know. She hath no care
For any love. Our lives lie waste and bare
Like lands whose losses make them memorable,
She hath no memory of days that were;
Her soul is vexed by no importunate prayer.
Love bowed beside her when on sleep she fell;
No wanderer knocketh at her gates to tell
Of things she would not know. She hath no care
For any love. Our lives lie waste and bare
Like lands whose losses make them memorable,
And still she heedeth not; yea verily,
Oh, life and love, if such a thing could be,
That we for one brief minute should forget,
She would not sigh or smile to know. And yet,
While life is sad and death is even thus,
Can all be well with her, and ill with us?
Oh, life and love, if such a thing could be,
That we for one brief minute should forget,
She would not sigh or smile to know. And yet,
While life is sad and death is even thus,
Can all be well with her, and ill with us?
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |