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The Spike: or, Victoria College Review, June 1910


page 28



Hic jacet. Here he lies and is a-cold,
Quiet as any feather of the owl;
More motionless than weeping clay or mould;
The worm his Carmelite, with dusk for cowl.
Shut, shut the gate; bar out the fruitful world;
Look, where the dandelion is low bending
Above his grave, as if the soul were sending
A muffled message through the darnel curled.
As if the flower could hear, and we not hear it,
As we do follow love, but never near it;
Close, close, but still impenetrably furled.

Now all his gains are the strange rewards of Death.
Who too know measure of the shadow thrown.
Along the path of life, where Evil saith
Come, live with me, and be with me, alone.
Now all he strove for, like the wave denied
The habitual sand, for ever is forsaken.
Indifferent, command can not another
The fretted spirit death has sanctified;
Who the wild heath has chosen for abiding,
Deed, deep within the roots, as if in hiding;
Where the Day helpeth not, with Night allied.

Hubert Church.

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