The Holy War | ||
63
WHAT SHE SAID
She said: Would I might sleep
With the bulbs I plant so deep,
Forgetting all the long Winter
That I must awake and weep.
With the bulbs I plant so deep,
Forgetting all the long Winter
That I must awake and weep.
A dreamless sleepy-head,
Forgetting my Dear was dead;
Nothing caring nor knowing
While the dark season sped.
Forgetting my Dear was dead;
Nothing caring nor knowing
While the dark season sped.
I am so young, so young,
And the years stretch out so long,
The weeks and the months so endless;
The long life does me wrong.
And the years stretch out so long,
The weeks and the months so endless;
The long life does me wrong.
I would grow old and grey,
As though 'twere only a day,
Till his voice came calling, calling
To me under the clay.
As though 'twere only a day,
Till his voice came calling, calling
To me under the clay.
64
Then I should spring to the sun,
Life done with, Life begun,
And run where he waited to lift me
Over the threshold stone.
Life done with, Life begun,
And run where he waited to lift me
Over the threshold stone.
She sighed in the Autumn weather:—
Would I and the bulbs together,
For Spring lay quietly waiting;
I and the bulbs together.
Would I and the bulbs together,
For Spring lay quietly waiting;
I and the bulbs together.
The Holy War | ||