The yellow book: an illustrated quarterly (4.1895)

By Graham R, Tomson

That guards my true-love in her grassy bed ;
My faith and troth are hers, and hers alone,

Are hers .... and she is dead.”

Weeping, she drew her veil about her face,

And faint her accents were and dull with pain ;
u Poor Vespertilia ! gone her days of grace,
Now doth she plead for love—and plead in vain
None praise her beauty now, or woo her smile !
* * * *

Ah, hadst thou loved me but a little while,

I might ha\re lived again.

Then slowly as a wave along the shore
She glided from me to yon sullen mound ;

My frozen heart, relenting, smote me sore—
Too late—I searched the hollow slopes around,
Swiftly I followed her, but nothing found,

Nor saw nor heard her more.

And now, alas, my true-love’s memory
Even as a dream of night-time half-forgot,
Fades faint and far from me,

And all my thoughts are of the stranger still,
Yea, thoug-h I loved her not :

I loved her not—and yet—I fain would see,
Upon the wind-swept hill,

Her dark veil fluttering in the autumn breeze ;
Fain would I hear her changeful voice awhile,
Soft as the wind of spring-tide in the trees,

And watch her slow, sweet smile.