Page:A New Zealand verse (1906).pdf/212

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176
A Dirge.
And delicately touched the lock, whereatI staggered, blinded by the light of thingsMore luminous than stars, and questioned thus—“What are these treasures, miser Memory?”And slowly bending his grey head, he spoke:“These are the multitude of kisses sweetLove gave so gladly, and I treasure here.”

D. M. Ross.

CXIV.

A Dirge.

Come not with sundered flowers to strew her grave;Nor be there any curtain but the grass,Dewed by the Night and by the winds that passTranced with the slumber of the level wave;Or if one cloud of the empyrean naveShall float a shadow on her shrouded face,Be it the shrine of this mysterious place,Bestowing shelter she for ever gave:And if the anthem of this holy roodFall from the throat of some forgotten bird,Faint with the press of heaven upon his wings,Be it the bruised fragrance that is stirredIn the sad heart, remembering happier thingsThat are the angels of this solitude.

Hubert Church.

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