Читать книгу Hazards - Wilfrid Wilson Gibson - Страница 25

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“But not forgotten....” On the lichened stone,

Sunk half-awry in the neglected grave,

The words are barely legible, the words

That, newly cut, once looked so stout and brave—

That meant so much that desolate day to hearts

Bereft of her who’d given them life: and yet

The very life she’d given, it was, that surged

So strong in them, and helped them to forget.

Caught in the swirl of life that with new lives

Affianced theirs, that newer lives might be,

They brooded less and less upon the dead

And the memorials of mortality.

“But not forgotten ...” while the race is run;

And lives that from her life sprung keep the track,

Although her name must perish, she yet lives

In hearts that never falter or turn back.