Page:Poems and ballads (IA balladspoems00swinrich).pdf/132



their last hour shall rise Pale on these mortal eyes, Herself like one that dies, And kiss me dying The cold last kiss, and fold Close round my limbs her cold Soft shade as raiment rolled And leave them lying,

If aught my soul would say Might move to hear me pray The birth‑god of my day That he might hearken, This grace my heart should crave,