English poem
To A Lost Love
by Stephen Phillips (1864–1915)
I 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; Disturb'd, as though a door in heaven Had oped and closed again.
And thou shalt shiver, while the hymns, The solemn hymns, shall cease; A moment half remember me: Then turn away to peace.
But oh, for evermore thy look, Thy laugh, thy charm, thy tone, Thy sweet and wayward earthliness, Dear trivial things, are gone!
Therefore I look not on thy grave, Though there the rose is sweet; But rather hear the loud wave wash These wastes about my feet.
STEPHEN PHILLIPS.