A perpetual memory and other poems: By Henry Newbolt: With brief memoirs by Walter de la Mare and Ralph Furse and a portrait by Sir William Rothenstein |
 | I. |
After Church
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 | II. |
 | A perpetual memory |  |
7
After Church
“Who was that poor old dame, so white and weak,
So bowed and the world so dead to her?
Was it not kindness lost? and I heard you speak,
I wondered what you said to her.”
So bowed and the world so dead to her?
Was it not kindness lost? and I heard you speak,
I wondered what you said to her.”
“Nothing—she is my Mother, my Mother who died
Years ago—three years ago.
Only on Sunday I see her—walk by her side—
No, no, you could not know.
Years ago—three years ago.
Only on Sunday I see her—walk by her side—
No, no, you could not know.
“She does not hear me—she takes my arm to her door—
Infinite comfort, infinite pain—
She does not know me—just as it was before,
Just—till she dies again.”
Infinite comfort, infinite pain—
She does not know me—just as it was before,
Just—till she dies again.”
| A perpetual memory | |