Author Notes
‘Riddles’ was the boyish nickname given to Lieutenant S.G. Ridley of the Royal Flying Corps, a lad of twenty, who was reported to have lost his life in the Egyptian Desert while trying to save the life of a comrade.
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Now Love, her mantle thrown, Goes naked by, Threading the woods alone, Her royal eye Happy because the primroses again
To Mrs. Thomas Hardy I do not use to listen well At sermon time, I 'Id rather hear the plainest rh… Than tales the parsons tell;
Come, sweetheart, listen, for I h… Most wonderful to tell you —news o… Albeit winter still is in the air, And the earth troubled, and the br… Yet down the fields to-day I saw…
Sweet in the rushes The reed-singers make A music that hushes The life of the lake; The leaves are dumb,
High up in the sky there, now, you… In this May twilight, our cottage… Tenantless, and no creature there… Near it but Mrs. Fry’s fat cows,… Dove-coloured, as is Cotswold. No…
Beyond my window in the night Is but a drab inglorious street, Yet there the frost and clean star… As over Warwick woods are sweet. Under the grey drift of the town
A shower of green gems on my apple… This first morning of May Has fallen out of the night, to be Herald of holiday — Bright gems of green that, fallen…
LORD, not for light in darkness… Not that the veil be lifted from o… Nor that the slow ascension of our… Be otherwise. Not for a clearer vision of the th…
The raining hour is done, And, threaded on the bough, The May-buds in the sun Are shining emeralds now. As transitory these
I know the pools where the graylin… I know the trees where the filbert… I know the woods where the red fox… The twisted elms where the brown o… And I’ve seldom a shilling to cal…
Come down at dawn from windless hi… Into the valley of the lake, Where yet a larger quiet fills The hour, and mist and water make With rocks and reeds and island bo…
The barriers of sleep are crossed And I alone am yet awake, Keeping another Pentecost For that new visitation’s sake Of life descending on the hills
God laughed when he made Grafton That’s under Bredon Hill, A jewel in a jewelled plain. The seasons work their will On golden thatch and crumbling sto…
Time gathers to my name; Along the ways wheredown my feet h… I see the years with little triump… Exulting not for perils dared, dow… And weary-eyed and desolate for sh…
Ringed high with turf the arena li… The neighbouring world unseen, unh… Here are but unhorizoned skies, And on the skies a passing bird, The conies and a wandering sheep,