A Woman’s Romance.
Bright was their meeting hour,
Sparkling with smiles all fair;
She like a budding flower,
He some rich bird of air.
Soft flew the passing hours,
Fleet-footed with her heart’s glee;
He gathered that heart’s best flowers,
But her will was full and free.
Flown was the parting hour,
Gone with its wrenching woe;
Torn lay that lovely flower,
Faded, forsaken now.
Come was a darker hour;
The stern black hour of death
Closed o’er that bruised flower,
Stifling its latest breath.
A pardon her latest breath said,
A prayer on her latest sigh!
Oh, holy that woman’s death-bed,
Thus to love and thus lie down and die.
Menie Parkes, Poems, F. Cunninghame, Sydney, , page 50
trow = (archaic) think; believe, suppose