Through long nursery nights he stood By my bed unwearying, Loomed gigantic, formless, queer, Purring in my haunted ear That same hideous nightmare thing, Talking, as he lapped my blood,...
Frowning over the riddle that Daniel told, Down through the mist hung garden, below a feeble sun, The King of Persia walked: oh, the chilling cold! His mind was webbed with a grey shroud vapour-spun. ...
Nine of the clock, oh! Wake my lazy head! Your shoes of red morocco, Your silk bed-gown: Rouse, rouse, speck-eyed Mary In your high bed! A yawn, a smile, sleepy-starey,...
Walking through trees to cool my heat and pain, I know that David's with me here again. All that is simple, happy, strong, he is. Caressingly I stroke Rough hark of the friendly oak....
Back from the Somme two Fusiliers Limped painfully home; the elder said, S. "Robert, I've lived three thousand years This Summer, and I'm nine parts dead."...
You young friskies who today Jump and fight in Father's hay With bows and arrows and wooden spears, Playing at Royal Welch Fusiliers, Happy though these hours you spend,...
The youngest poet down the shelves was fumbling In a dim library, just behind the chair From which the ancient poet was mum-mumbling A song about some Lovers at a Fair,...
A simple nosegay! was that much to ask? (Winter still gloomed, with scarce a bud yet showing). He loved her ill, if he resigned the task. 'Somewhere,' she cried, 'there must be blossom blowing.'...
(From Frise on the Somme in February, 1917, in answer to a letter saying: "I am just finishing my 'Faun's Holiday.' I wish you were here to feed him with cherries.")