From The Birmingham Age Herald, December 16, 1914. By Gervais Gage.
At a gate on the hill in the parting hour,
When the wind blew soft on the sea,
He laid in the maiden’s hand a flower;
“O sweet, thy pledge from me!
Years shall be sped, the flower be dead,
But not my love to thee;
O not my love to thee!
It liveth still in a heart on the hill
In a tender memorie!”
At a gate on the hill, in a weary hour
When the rough wind vexed the sea,
She held in her hand the faded flower;
“O sweet, my pledge from thee!
The years are sped, the flower is dead,
But not thy love to me,
Tho there come no news from the sea;
It liveth still in a heart on the hill
In a quenchless memorie!”
On a grave by the hill he knelt—alone,
The wanderer, back from the sea;
He knelt alone by a white gravestone;
And carven curiously,
The scroll he read: —“The flower is dead;
But not thy love in me,
Tho thou stayest long on the sea;
By a higher hill it waiteth still,
At a fairer gate for thee;
In a deathless tryst with thee!”