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BEYOND the north wind lay the land of old Where men dwelt blithe and blameless, clothed and fed With joy’s bright raiment and with love’s sweet bread, The whitest flock of earth’s maternal fold. None there might wear about his brows enrolled A light of lovelier fame than rings your head, Whose lovesome love of children and the dead All men give thanks for: I far off behold A dear dead hand that links us, and a light The blithest and benignest of the night, The night of death’s sweet sleep, wherein may be A star to show your spirit in present sight Some happier island in the Elysian sea Where Rab may lick the hand of Marjorie. March 1882 |