The sky is like an envelope, One of those blue official things; And, sealing it, to mock our hope, The moon, a silver wafer, clings. What shall we find when death gives leave...
If you leave the gloom of London and you seek a glowing land, Where all except the flag is strange and new, There's a bronzed and stalwart fellow who will grip you by the hand,...
Oh, weren't they the fine boys! You never saw the beat of them, Singing all together with their throats bronze-bare; Fighting-fit and mirth-mad, music in the feet of them,...
There lies the trail to Sunnydale, Amid the lure of laughter. Oh, how can we unhappy be Beneath its leafy rafter! Each perfect hour is like a flower, Each day is like a posy....
My rhymes are rough, and often in my rhyming I've drifted, silver-sailed, on seas of dream, Hearing afar the bells of Elfland chiming, Seeing the groves of Arcadie agleam. ...
POPPIES, you try to tell me, glowing there in the wheat; Poppies! Ah no! You mock me: It's blood, I tell you, it's blood. It's gleaming wet in the grasses; it's glist'ning warm in the wheat;...
Light up your pipe again, old chum, and sit awhile with me; I've got to watch the bannock bake - how restful is the air! You'd little think that we were somewhere north of Sixty-three,...