Till I go where thou art gone.

Arthur S. Cripps.

Arthur S. Cripps.

[15]

[15]

TO A LOST LOVE

 cannot look upon thy grave,

Though there the rose is sweet: 

Better to hear the long wave wash

These wastes about my feet!

Shall I take comfort? Dost thou live

A spirit, though afar,

With a deep hush about thee, like

The stillness round a star?

Oh, thou art cold! In that high sphere

Thou art a thing apart,

Losing in saner happiness

This madness of the heart.

And yet, at times, thou still shalt feel

A passing breath, a pain;

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