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 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
TO CICELY.
Ah, my dear one, laid to rest
In your lowly English bed,
With the grass upon your breast
And the sweet flowers at your head;
Did you whisper now to me:
“Dear, remember Italy?”
In your lowly English bed,
With the grass upon your breast
And the sweet flowers at your head;
Did you whisper now to me:
“Dear, remember Italy?”
Do you think I could forget
How unto that hope most blest,
Like two ships with canvas set,
Making for the sunlit West,
Went we to our shining goal,—
Heart in heart, and soul in soul?
How unto that hope most blest,
Like two ships with canvas set,
Making for the sunlit West,
Went we to our shining goal,—
Heart in heart, and soul in soul?
And to me, on my lone way,
Still the glory of it cleaves,
As at close of some June day
All the sky with sunset heaves,—
Ah, but to this sunset light
Comes a starless, moonless night.
Still the glory of it cleaves,
As at close of some June day
All the sky with sunset heaves,—
Ah, but to this sunset light
Comes a starless, moonless night.
Dear one, these are homesick words,—
For our love's sake, and our past,
Flying home to you, as birds
To the nest fly home at last,
Their tired wings to fold and rest
When the sun fails in the West.
For our love's sake, and our past,
Flying home to you, as birds
To the nest fly home at last,
Their tired wings to fold and rest
When the sun fails in the West.
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |