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 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
AFTER SUMMER.
We'll not weep for summer over,—
No, not we;
Strew above his head the clover,—
Let him be!
No, not we;
Strew above his head the clover,—
Let him be!
Other eyes may weep his dying,
Shed their tears
There upon him, where he's lying
With his peers.
Shed their tears
There upon him, where he's lying
With his peers.
Unto some of them he proffered
Gifts most sweet;
For our hearts a grave he offered,—
Was this meet?
Gifts most sweet;
For our hearts a grave he offered,—
Was this meet?
All our fond hopes, praying, perished
In his wrath,—
All the lovely dreams we cherished
Strewed his path.
In his wrath,—
All the lovely dreams we cherished
Strewed his path.
354
Shall we in our tombs, I wonder,
Far apart,
Sundered wide as seas can sunder
Heart from heart,
Far apart,
Sundered wide as seas can sunder
Heart from heart,
Dream at all of all the sorrows
That were ours,—
Bitter nights, more bitter morrows;
Poison-flowers
That were ours,—
Bitter nights, more bitter morrows;
Poison-flowers
Summer gathered, as in madness,
Saying, “See,
These are yours, in place of gladness,—
Gifts from me?”
Saying, “See,
These are yours, in place of gladness,—
Gifts from me?”
Nay, the rest that will be ours,
Is supreme,—
And below the poppy flowers
Steals no dream.
Is supreme,—
And below the poppy flowers
Steals no dream.
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |