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 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
I.
Walking my way, with face to sorrow set,
A voice, most like the wind's voice when it says
Some grieving word within a pine-thronged place
Spake low to me; and turning round, I met
The eyes my spirit never may forget,
Then for long time unseen; and down the ways
A spectral band, the ghosts of my old days,
Came to me sighing, “Ah, not forgotten yet!”
A voice, most like the wind's voice when it says
Some grieving word within a pine-thronged place
Spake low to me; and turning round, I met
The eyes my spirit never may forget,
Then for long time unseen; and down the ways
A spectral band, the ghosts of my old days,
Came to me sighing, “Ah, not forgotten yet!”
289
And some looked sad, and some were garlanded
With flowers that long ago made fair the land;
And in the midst there came, hand clasped in hand,
My friend, and those to whom my life was wed.
“But ah, what shape,” I cried, “now heads the band?”
“What shape but thine old self?” the wind's voice said.
With flowers that long ago made fair the land;
And in the midst there came, hand clasped in hand,
My friend, and those to whom my life was wed.
“But ah, what shape,” I cried, “now heads the band?”
“What shape but thine old self?” the wind's voice said.
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |