 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
374
BELOVED OF HER.
Those people who are dear to her at all
Are for her sweet sake very dear to me;
All places known of her divinity
Are loved by me, and hold my heart in thrall:
These flowers, that felt her pure breast rise and fall,
Laid here apart where all her love-gifts be,
Are fragrant with the passionate memory
Of a dear day lost now past Love's recall.
Are for her sweet sake very dear to me;
All places known of her divinity
Are loved by me, and hold my heart in thrall:
These flowers, that felt her pure breast rise and fall,
Laid here apart where all her love-gifts be,
Are fragrant with the passionate memory
Of a dear day lost now past Love's recall.
Books she has read; least things her hands have touched;
The very floor her garment's hem has brushed,—
Being loved of me, shall I not love as well
What she loved most, — to climb the upward way;
No longer in this poppied vale to dwell,
But scale the heights where shines the perfect day?
The very floor her garment's hem has brushed,—
Being loved of me, shall I not love as well
What she loved most, — to climb the upward way;
No longer in this poppied vale to dwell,
But scale the heights where shines the perfect day?
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |