IMMORTALITY
By Constance Davies-Woodrow

They are not dead, those singers of the past,
   Who feel no more the stab of beauty’s pain
At song of bird, or sunset’s irised flame,
   Or drifting scent of lilacs after rain.

The fleet enchantments of their mortal hour,
   The lambent flowers of passion and regret,
The laurels that were wreathed about their brows,
   Are one with all the vanished past, and yet:

Singers nor song shall perish utterly
   Though future worlds despise the poet’s art:
Who knows what scented summer wind may bear
   The lyric dust of Sappho’s broken heart?

COPYRIGHT 1928. BALK-PRESTON CO., TORONTO.
Constance Davies Woodrow