ARTHUR S. CRIPPS.

By Laurence Binyon

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.