Mortal Thing Not Wholly Clay

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Title:     Mortal Thing Not Wholly Clay
Author: William Johnson Cory [More Titles by Cory]

J'aurai passé sur la terre,
N'ayant rien aimé que l'amour.

Mortal thing not wholly clay,
Mellowing only to decay,
Speak, for airs of spring unfold
Wistful sorrows long untold.

Under a poplar turning green,
Say for age that seems so bold,
Oh, the saddest words to say,
"This might have been."

Twenty, thirty years ago--
Woe, woe, the seasons flow--
Beatings of a zephyr's plume
Might have broken down the doom.

Gossamer scruples fell between
Thee and this that might have been;
Now the clinging cobwebs grow;
Ah! the saddest loss is this,
A good maid's kiss.

Soon, full soon, they will be here,
Twisting withies for the bier;
Under a heathen yew-tree's shade
Will a wasted heart be laid--
Heart that never dared be dear.

Leave it so, to lie unblest,
Priest of love, just half confessed.

[The end]
William Johnson Cory's poem: Mortal Thing Not Wholly Clay

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