A West-Country writer (novelist, playwright and poet), no longer fashionable.
From UP-ALONG AND
DOWN-ALONG, EDEN
PHILLPOTTS (1905)
WHERE MY TREASURE IS
ETERNAL Mother, when my race is run,
Will that I pass beneath the risen sun.
Suffer my sight to dim upon some spot
That changes not.
Let my last pillow be the land I love
With fair infinity of blue above;
The roaming shadow of a silver cloud
My only shroud.
A little lark above the morning star,
Shall shrill the tidings of my end afar;
The muffled music of a lone sheep-bell
Shall be my knell.
And where stone heroes trod the Moor of old;
Where ancient wolf howled round a granite fold;
Hide Thou, beneath the heather's new-born light,
My endless night.
*****
Wikipedia entry
Eden Philpotts was much admired (like Thomas Hardy) by Douglas Macmillan of Castle Cary
(see last three verses):
Eden Philpotts was much admired (like Thomas Hardy) by Douglas Macmillan of Castle Cary
(see last three verses):
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