South of the Line, inland from far Durban, A mouldering soldier lies - your countryman. Awry and doubled up are his gray bones, And on the breeze his puzzled phantom moans...
"Ah, are you digging on my grave My loved one? planting rue?" - "No: yesterday he went to wed One of the brightest wealth has bred. 'It cannot hurt her now,' he said, 'That I should not be true.'" ...
There had been years of Passion scorching, cold, And much Despair, and Anger heaving high, Care whitely watching, Sorrows manifold, Among the young, among the weak and old,...
The bars are thick with drops that show As they gather themselves from the fog Like silver buttons ranged in a row, And as evenly spaced as if measured, although They fall at the feeblest jog. ...
There floated the sounds of church-chiming, But no one was nigh, Till there came, as a break in the loneness, Her father, she, I. And we slowly moved on to the wicket, And downlooking stood,...
"O England, may God punish thee!" - Is it that Teuton genius flowers Only to breathe malignity Upon its friend of earlier hours? - We have eaten your bread, you have eaten ours,...
For Life I had never cared greatly, As worth a man's while; Peradventures unsought, Peradventures that finished in nought, Had kept me from youth and through manhood till lately Unwon by its style....
I saw a slowly-stepping train - Lined on the brows, scoop-eyed and bent and hoar - Following in files across a twilit plain A strange and mystic form the foremost bore.
The moving sun-shapes on the spray, The sparkles where the brook was flowing, Pink faces, plightings, moonlit May, These were the things we wished would stay; But they were going.
Sweet cyder is a great thing, A great thing to me, Spinning down to Weymouth town By Ridgway thirstily, And maid and mistress summoning Who tend the hostelry: O cyder is a great thing,...
Long have I framed weak phantasies of Thee, O Willer masked and dumb! Who makest Life become, - As though by labouring all-unknowingly, Like one whom reveries numb. ...
There was a glorious time At an epoch of my prime; Mornings beryl-bespread, And evenings golden-red; Nothing gray: And in my heart I said, "However this chanced to be, It is too full for me,...