And the stone above her ashes bears the sacred name of wife.
That’s the blossom I fain would pluck today from the garden above her dust,
Not the languorous lily of soulless sin, nor the blood red rose of lust;
But a sweet white blossom of holy love that grew in the one green spot,
In the arid desert of Phryne’s life where all else was parched and hot.
* * *
Stranded
By H. H. Bennett
’Twas on a sunny morn in June,
The bee had put his pipes a-tune