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.
