Rubble and Roseleaves, and Things of That Kind

by Frank Boreham

When day is done and in the golden west

My soul from yours sinks slowly out of sight,

And you alone enjoy the warmth and light

That once had seemed of all God's gifts the best;

When roses bloom and I not there to name,

When thrushes sing and I not there to hear,

When rippling laughter breaks upon your ear

And friends come flocking as of old they came;

I pray, dear heart, for sweet Remembrance sake

You pluck the rose and hear the songful thrush.