Children, if you dare to think Of the greatness, rareness, muchne… Fewness of this precious only Endless world in which you say You live, you think of things like…
I never dreamed we’d meet that day In our old haunts down Fricourt w… Plotting such marvellous journeys… For jolly old “Après—la—guerre.” Well, when it’s over, first we’ll…
Under this loop of honeysuckle, A creeping, coloured caterpillar, I gnaw the fresh green hawthorn sp… I nibble it leaf by leaf away. Down beneath grow dandelions,
The great sun sinks behind the tow… Through a red mist of Volnay wine… But what’s the use of setting down That glorious blaze behind the tow… You’ll only skip the page, you’ll…
I’ve watched the Seasons passing… In the fields between La Bassée a… Primroses and the first warm day o… Red poppy floods of June, August, and yellowing Autumn, so
He fell in victory’s fierce pursui… Holed through and through with sho… A sabre sweep had hacked him deep Twixt neck and shoulderknot.... The potman cannot well recall,
Small gnats that fly In hot July And lodge in sleeping ears, Can rouse therein A trumpet’s din
Lady, lovely lady, Careless and gay! Once when a beggar called She gave her child away. The beggar took the baby,
The bards falter in shame, their r… Stumbles, with marrow—bones the dr… Pelt them for their delay. It is a something fearful in the s… Plagues them —an unknown grief tha…
‘Gabble—gabble . . . brethren . .… My window glimpses larch and heath… I hardly hear the tuneful babble, Not knowing nor much caring whethe… The text is praise or exhortation,
Dust in a cloud, blinding weather, Drums that rattle and roar! A mother and daughter stood togeth… Beside their cottage door. ‘Mother, the heavens are bright li…
As Jesus and his followers Upon a Sabbath morn Were walking by a wheat field They plucked the ears of corn. They plucked it, they rubbed it,
If strange things happen where she… So that men say that graves open And the dead walk, or that futurit… Becomes a womb and the unborn are… Such portents are not to be wonder…
Here is this patchwork quilt I’ve… Of patterned silks and old brocade… Small faded rags in memory rich Sewn each to each with feather sti… But if you stare aghast perhaps
Where is the landlord of old Hawk… And what of Master Straddler this… He’s along in the tap—room with br… And ten bold companions all drinki… Where is the daughter of old Hawk…