Sometimes the ghosts forgotten go Along the hill-top way, And with long scythes of silver mow Meadows of moonlit hay, Until the cocks of Cotswold crow The coming of the day. ...
Time gathers to my name; Along the ways wheredown my feet have passed I see the years with little triumph crowned, Exulting not for perils dared, downcast And weary-eyed and desolate for shame...
That was the proud woman, Naaman's wife. Basking at noon under the Syrian fans, While Naaman, the leprous mighty captain, Proud glowing flesh now silver-skinned and tainted,...
Black in the summer night my Cotswold hill Aslant my window sleeps, beneath a sky Deep as the bedded violets that fill March woods with dusky passion. As I lie Abed between cool walls I watch the host...
Dear boy unborn: the son but of my dream, Promise of yet unrisen day, Come, sit beside me; let us talk, and seem To take such cares and courage for your way,...