 | In memory of W. V.: William Canton |  |
187
TO WINIFRED
When I am dead,
And you are old,
You'll sit as we are sitting now,
Close to the fire, hearing the wind blow cold;
And you will stroke a golden head,
And, suddenly, remembering how
I fondled yours, become at last aware
How dear to me was every single hair.
And you are old,
You'll sit as we are sitting now,
Close to the fire, hearing the wind blow cold;
And you will stroke a golden head,
And, suddenly, remembering how
I fondled yours, become at last aware
How dear to me was every single hair.
When I am dead,
And you are old,
You'll clasp in yours a little hand—
A nestling hand, sweet as a flower to hold—
The pretty fingers you will spread,
And kissing them will understand
How kissing yours, I found therein a joy
Beyond the world's to give, or to destroy.
And you are old,
You'll clasp in yours a little hand—
A nestling hand, sweet as a flower to hold—
The pretty fingers you will spread,
And kissing them will understand
How kissing yours, I found therein a joy
Beyond the world's to give, or to destroy.
| In memory of W. V.: William Canton | |