G. A. FIELDING BUCKNALL (EXETER)

NOT with a crown of thorns about his head But with a single rose in his white hand, Fairer than Death herself, he joins the dead, He that could laugh at life, yet understand. No veils are rent in twain, or unknown fears Fall on the crowd who crucify my lord; Lay him to rest, while poetry and tears Be the last gifts his mourning friends accord. Cast not white flowers on one who loved but red, Leave him the dust who found in dust the praise Only of life, and, now that he is dead Surely in death is fair a thousand ways. Leave him in peace, a poem to the end— He was the man I loved: I was his friend.