SHE turn’d the fair page with her fairer hand— <br />More fair and frail than it was wont to be— <br />O’er each remember’d thing he lov’d to see <br />She linger’d, and as with a fairy’s wand <br />Enchanted it to order. Oft she fann’d <br />New motes into the sun; and as a bee <br />Sings thro’ a brake of bells, so murmur’d she, <br />And so her patient love did understand <br />The reliquary room. Upon the sill <br />She fed his favorite bird. “Ah, Robin, sing! <br />He loves thee.” Then she touches a sweet string <br />Of soft recall, and towards the Eastern hill <br />Smiles all her soul—for him who cannot hear <br />The raven croaking at his carrion ear.<br /><br />Sydney Thompson Dobell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/home-in-war-time/
