When Death has crossed my name from out the roll Of dreaming children serving in this War; And with these earthly eyes I gaze no more Upon sweet England's grace - perhaps my soul...
That I were Keats! And with a golden pen Could for all time preserve these golden days In rich and glowing verse, for poorer men, Who felt their wonder, but could only gaze...
When through the heat of some long afternoon In blazing August, on the grass I lie, And watch the white clouds move across the sky, On whose azure is faintly etched the moon,...