Robert Crawford

(1868 - 13 January 1930 / Australia)

A Memory.


She had an other-worldly air,
So like a flower she grew,
As if her thoughts and feelings were
The only life she knew.
She moved in other ways apart,
As in a secret place,
And the emotion of her heart
Seemed breathing in her face.
It was as if a faery power
Had charmed her with its mood,
And graced her with the dreamy dower
Of earthly angelhood.
And when Death touched her starry brow,
It seemed as if it were
The dream she was became somehow
Another dream of her.

Submitted: Wednesday, April 21, 2010

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