He glowed with beauty like a tree
That reaches up towards the sky.
I dozed: my soul did drift away,
Fearless, to a sleepy land,
Where Wilfred stood upon a cloud,
A golden harp held in his hand.
Motionless he stood and yet
The sweetest music seemed to flow
Down from his aethereal height
To waft around my ears below.
I woke to bitter memory:
Alas! Poor Wilfred is no more!
At one now with the rocks and stones,
Cold, beneath the chapel floor!
Margery Clute (1824-76)
When icicles hang