To A. L.
Sayer of sooth, and Searcher of dim skies!
Lover of Song, and Sun, and Summertide,
For whom so many roses bloomed and died;
Tender Interpreter, most sadly wise,
Of earth’s dumb, inarticulated cries!
Time’s self cannot estrange us, nor divide;
Thy hand still beckons from the garden-side,
Through green vine-garlands, when the Winter dies.
Thy calm lips smile on us, thine eyes are wet;
The nightingale’s full song sobs all through thine,
And thine in hers,—part human, part divine!
Among the deathless gods thy place is set,
All-wise, but drowsy with Life’s mingled Wine,
Laughter and Learning, Passion and Regret.
Graham R. Thomson (Rosamund Marriott Watson)