Poems (Probyn)/Forgotten polly

by May Probyn

POEMS.

FORGOTTEN POLLY.

She wanders down the garden walks,
 She plucks the last pale rose—
Beneath her feet the autumn leaves
 Make rustle as she goes.
She leans upon the low grey wall,
 And looks across the sea—
"He has forgot—alas!" she sighs,
 "He does not come to me."

The surge and tossing of the tide
 Is rising round the rocks;
The rough south wind sweeps by, and bends
 The nodding hollyhocks;
Her one rose trembles in her hand,
 And sheds itself away—
"The last," she weeps, "the last that I
 Shall gather any day.

"The Spring will come again," she saith,
 "And all the flowers will blow,
But I shall lie in churchyard grass
 Where only daisies grow—
The limes will blossom overhead,
 And I shall lie below.

"Upon my grave-stone let them write
 The little name I bore,—
No date, nor text, nor further word,
 Just 'Polly'—nothing more.
That tells no story, leaves no trace
 Behind—it needeth not
That any should remember me,
 Alas! since he forgot.

"And if he comes this way," she saith,
 "And sees the name set there,
He'll know 'tis 'Polly' laid beneath
 Who had the golden hair—
And he will sigh, perhaps," she saith,
 "Because I was so fair.

"Or if his foot-fall never sounds
 Beside my grave's green sod,
Still he and I may meet some day
 Upon the hills of God.
Do they remember up in heaven—?
 Or will he come through death,
And still forget—? Alas, for that—
 I cannot tell!" she saith.

She turns her from the sobbing sea,
 And wanders up the walk,
With still between her fingers pale
 The rose's empty stalk. . . .

There rings a call from God's high gate—
 She does not hear it yet;
Across the stillness of the sky,
 When all the stars have set,
White angels sweep her soul to heaven—
 And he and she have met.