Your love is like some wondrous scented rose.
The evening sees a purple pool of blood
Beneath the tree that Summer's glory chose
Crimsonly thick with passion'd joys to flood.
Your love is like the harvest of the sun
Moltenly golden, gloriously sublime.
Were I the reaper, swiftly would I run
And reap thy golden love till death were time.
Your love is like the shadows of the ev'n,
The gold-green tints that linger in the sky;
When the red king in opal cloud flies heav'n,
Leaving the dewy earth to sleep and cry.
Your love is like the mystery of the night,
When the wan mists the dreamy violets kiss,
It comes like ghostly owl with muted flight,
It comes like Death;--but Death from you is bliss.
_F. ST. V. MORRIS_
(_WADHAM_)
[_3rd Batt. Sherwood Foresters, attached
R.F.C. Died of wounds, April 29, 1917_]