London, my beautiful, It is not the sunset Nor the pale green sky Shimmering through the curtain Of the silver birch,

The young men of the world Are condemned to death. They have been called up to die For the crime of their fathers. The young men of the world,

EVENING and quiet: a bird trills in the poplar trees behind the house with the dark gre… across the road. Into the sky,

I MOVE: perhaps I have wakened; this is a bed; this is a room; and there is light . . .

ELM trees and the leaf the boy in me hated long ago— rough and sandy. Poplars

DEAR one! you sit there in the corner of the carriage; and you do not know me; and your eyes forbid.

Brother. I saw you on a muddy road in France pass by with your battalion, rifle at the slope, full marching…

. . . THAT night I loved you in the candlelight. Your golden hair strewed the sweet whiteness of the… and the counterpane.

ON black bare trees a stale cream… hangs dead, and sours the unborn b… Two gaunt old hacks, knees bent, h… tug, tired and spent, an old horse… Damp smoke, rank mist fill the dar…