Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/1061

 Were I and my darling— O heart-bitter wound!— On board of the ship For America bound.

On a green bed of rushes All last night I lay, And I flung it abroad With the heat of the day.

And my Love came behind me, He came from the South; His breast to my bosom, His mouth to my mouth.

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON

b. 1862

859. The Phœnix

BY feathers green, across Casbeen The pilgrims track the Phœnix flown, By gems he strew'd in waste and wood, And jewell'd plumes at random thrown.

Till wandering far, by moon and star, They stand beside the fruitful pyre, Where breaking bright with sanguine light The impulsive bird forgets his sire.

Those ashes shine like ruby wine, Like bag of Tyrian murex spilt, The claw, the jowl of the flying fowl Are with the glorious anguish gilt.