Poem by Lascelles Abercrombie

* * *

ALL last night I had quiet
    In a fragrant dream and warm: 
She became my Sabbath,
    And round my neck, her arm.

I knew the warmth in my dreaming;
    The fragrance, I suppose, 
Was her hair about me,
    Or else she wore a rose.

Her hair I think; for likest
    Woodruffe 'twas, when Spring 
Loitering down the wet woodways
    Treads it sauntering.

No light, nor any speaking;
    Fragrant only and warm. 
Enough to know my lodging,
    The white Sabbath of her arm. 

1. The Stream’s Song
2. Hope and Despair
3. Roses Can Wound
4. Hymn to Love
5. The Box

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