 | The Collected Poems of T. W. H. Crosland |  |
44
For H. M. C.
I wonder which hath triumphed, you or Death?
For he has torn you ultimately from your place,
And shattered all the woman in your face,
And put his last injunction on your breath,
And ferried you across to his dim staith
Where there is none who hath either hope or grace,
But only the unimaginable race
Of broken souls his wing encompasseth.
For he has torn you ultimately from your place,
And shattered all the woman in your face,
And put his last injunction on your breath,
And ferried you across to his dim staith
Where there is none who hath either hope or grace,
But only the unimaginable race
Of broken souls his wing encompasseth.
O pitiful and pitiful! And yet
Not all he asks is yielded up to him,
And we who fight have our shrewd joy therefor:
Upon your brow sitteth a shining, grim
Rapture of wars, and on your lips is set
To-night the still smile of the conqueror.
Not all he asks is yielded up to him,
And we who fight have our shrewd joy therefor:
Upon your brow sitteth a shining, grim
Rapture of wars, and on your lips is set
To-night the still smile of the conqueror.
| The Collected Poems of T. W. H. Crosland | |