SEA SPRAY &> SMOKE DRIFT 



For the hand that clasps your fingers, 



Closing in the death-grip tight, 

 Scarcely feels the warmth that lingers, 



Scarcely heeds the pressure light ; 

 While the failing pulse that alters. 



Changing 'neath a death chill damp, 

 Flickers, flutters, flags, and falters. 



Feebly, like a waning lamp. 



Think'st thou, love, 'twill chafe my ghost, in 



Hades' realm, where heroes shine. 

 Should I hear the shepherd boasting 



To his Argive concubine ? 

 Let him boast, the girlish victor, 



Let him brag ; not thus, I trow. 

 Were the laurels torn from Hector, 



Not so very long ago. 



Does my voice sound thick and husky ? 



Is my hand no longer warm ? 

 Round that neck where pearls look dusky 



Let me once more wind my arm ; 

 Rest my head upon that shoulder. 



Where it rested oft of yore ; 



Warm and white, yet seeming colder 



Now than ere it seem'd before. 



6 



