Listen now this time Shortly to my rhyme That herewith starts About certain kind hearts In those stricken parts That lie behind Calais, Old crones and aged men...
Double red daisies, they're my flowers, Which nobody else may grow. In a big quarrelsome house like ours They try it sometimes, but no, I root them up because they're my flowers,...
"Give us Rain, Rain," said the bean and the pea, "Not so much Sun, Not so much Sun." But the Sun smiles bravely and encouragingly, And no rain falls and no waters run. ...
He had met hours of the clock he never guessed before, Dumb, dragging, mirthless hours confused with dreams and fear, Bone-chilling, hungry hours when the gods sleep and snore,...
This is a wild land, country of my choice, With harsh craggy mountain, moor ample and bare. Seldom in these acres is heard any voice But voice of cold water that runs here and there...
(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.")