Yearning for shadows and the darkened hours,

 Sweet Lord, be pitiful, remembering still

 One lieth low beneath the budding flowers.

 Caris Brooke.

  

Never a hand on the cottage door

Never

 To call me forth in the evening light,

 My days grow old, and I watch no more

 The cowslips gold and the may-buds white.

 Primroses nestle beneath the hedge

 Where we kissed and wept and said good-bye—

 For twenty years I have watched them bud,

 For twenty years I have seen them die.

 Yet now that the Spring once more has turned

 The sea to silver, the earth to gold,

 I shall watch no more from the primrose lane,

 Where I waited and watched in the days of old.

 Yet the children weave me their daisy chains,

 The woodland music is sweet and clear,

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