Verse > Anthologies > Andrew Macphail, ed. > The Book of Sorrow
Andrew Macphail, comp.  The Book of Sorrow.  1916.
X. The Pity of It
On a Locket, with lock of hair of Penelope his child
By Sir Brooke Boothby (1743–1824)

BRIGHT, crispèd threads of pure, translucent gold!
  Ye, who were wont with Zephyr’s breath to play;
O’er the warm cheek, and ivory forehead stray;
Or clasp her neck in many an amorous fold;
  Now, motionless, this little shrine must hold;        5
No more to wanton in the eye of day,
Or to the breeze your changing hues display;
For ever still, inanimate, and cold!
  Poor, poor, last relic of an angel face!
Sad setting ray, no more thy orb is seen!        10
O, Beauty’s pattern, miracle of grace,
  Must this be all that tells what thou hast been!
Come then, cold crystal, on this bosom lie,
Till Love, and Grief, and fond Remembrance die!

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