Page:Where the Dead Men Lie.djvu/31



Adown the grass-grown paths we strayed: The evening cowslips oped Their yellow eyes to look at her; The love-sick lilies moped With envy that she rather chose To take a creamy-petalled rose And lean it ’gainst her ebon hair, All in that garden fair.

A languid breeze, with stolen scent Of box-bloom in his grasp, Sighed out his longing in her ear, And with his dying gasp Scattered the perfume at her feet To blend with others not less sweet: He loved her, but she did not care, All in that garden fair. Rh