Spring at her height on a morn at prime, Sails that laugh from a flying squall, Pomp of harmony, rapture of rhyme - Youth is the sign of them, one and all....
Where are the passions they essayed, And where the tears they made to flow? Where the wild humours they portrayed For laughing worlds to see and know? Othello's wrath and Juliet's woe?...
Do you remember That afternoon - that Sunday afternoon! - When, as the kirks were ringing in, And the grey city teemed With Sabbath feelings and aspects, LEWIS - our LEWIS then,...
These, to you now, O, more than ever now - Now that the Ancient Enemy Has passed, and we, we two that are one, have seen A piece of perfect Life Turn to so ravishing a shape of Death...
The morning mists still haunt the stony street; The northern summer air is shrill and cold; And lo, the Hospital, grey, quiet, old, Where Life and Death like friendly chafferers meet....
Two and thirty is the ploughman. He's a man of gallant inches, And his hair is close and curly, And his beard; But his face is wan and sunken, And his eyes are large and brilliant,...
His beat lies knee-high through a dust of story - A dust of terror and torture, grief and crime; Ghosts that are ENGLAND'S wonder, and shame, and glory Throng where he walks, an antic of old time;...
Out of the poisonous East, Over a continent of blight, Like a maleficent Influence released From the most squalid cellarage of hell, The Wind-Fiend, the abominable -...