Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895. 1895.
Ethelwyn WetheraldThe Wind of Death
T
The last warm petal from the rose,
The last dry leaf from off the tree,
To-night has come to breathe on me.
As weaker mortals learn to love;
The passion held me fixed as fate,
Burned in my veins early and late,
But now a wind falls from above—
Enshroudeth friend and enemy.
By keen ambition’s whip and spur;
My master forced me where he willed,
And with his power my life was filled,
But now the old time pulses stir
That bloweth lightly as a breath!
I yield strength, and life, and heart;
His look turned bitter into sweet,
His smile made all the world complete;
The wind blows loves like leaves apart—
Is blowing ’twixt my love and me.
Each separate ship of human woes
Far out on a mysterious sea,
I turn, I turn my face to thee.