After working hard all day In the office, How much worse on homeward way My old cough is! Barney’s Bar is gaily lit,
Between the cliff—rise and the bea… A slip of emerald I own; With fig and olive, almond, peach, cherry and plum—tree overgrown; Glad—watered by a crystal spring
What are you doing here, Tom Thor… Where the wind has the cut of a na… Hugging a smudgy willow fire, deep… You that’s a lord’s own son, Tom… Go home, go home to your clubs, T…
My garden robin in the Spring Was rapturous with glee, And followed me with wistful wing From pear to apple tree; His melodies the summer long
“The spirits do not like the light… The medium said, and turned the sw… The little lady on my right Clutched at my hand with nervous t… (She seemed to be a pretty bitch.)
Singing larks I saw for sale — (Ah! the pain of it) Plucked and ready to impale On a roasting spit; Happy larks that summer—long
I never saw a face so bright With brilliant blood and joy, As was the grinning mug last night Of Dick, our local boy, When with a clumsy, lucky clout
“Carry your suitcase, Sir?” he sa… I turned away to hide a grin, For he was shorter by a head Than I and pitiably thin. I could have made a pair of him,
They say she speeded wanton wild When she was warm with wine; And so she killed a little child, (Could have been yours or mine). The Judge’s verdict was not mild,
Italian people peaceful are,— Let it be to their credit. They mostly fail to win a war, —Oh they themselves have said it. “Allergic we to lethal guns
'Tis true my garments threadbare a… And sorry poor I seem; But inly I am richer far Than any poet’s dream. For I’ve a hidden life no one
’Twas a year ago and the moon was… (Oh, I remember so well, so well)… I walked with my love in a sea of… And the voice of my sweet was a si… And sudden the moon grew strangely…
Gas got me in the first World War… And all my mates at rest are laid. I felt I might survive them for I am a gardener by trade. My life is in the open air,
Let poets piece prismatic words, Give me the jewelled joy of birds! What ecstasy moves them to sing? Is it the lyric glee of Spring, The dewy rapture of the rose?
Striving is life, yet life is stri… I fight to live, yet live to fight… The vital urge is in my driving, Yet I must drive with all my migh… Each day a battle, and the fray