To the Dear and Deathless Memory of
I Dedicate This Little Book.
A string is snapped in the echoing lute,
A chord in the harmony fallen mute,
There’s a tint the less in the rainbow-span,
And a missing point in the stars’ bright plan,
A hand-clasp lacking, the warmth it gave
Lost, and the earth has another grave.
A taper quenched by a mighty breath,
A gate unbarred by the hand of Death,
A magnet, set in a rarer air,
To draw our thoughts and desires there,
Thus, Dear Heart, through all our grief for thee
Comes the healing balm of thy memory.
Agnes L. Storrie. Poems, J. W. Kettlewell, Sydney, 1909, page v