On stark and tortured wire Where refuse of war lies Tangled in mire— When God is flinging Rain down the skies—

Lo! there she comes from afar Her eyes tender as moonlight Or the evening star On a purple night In Autumn! See!

A DIGGER he digs in the dark In the naked remains of a wood, For his friend that lies stiff and… On his head hard blood for a hood: The digging is painful and slow,

We met a strange old man to-day (As we strolled in the ruined plac… And he smiled to us as we came his… With gentle, wistful grace. ‘ Ah! Messieurs, it is very sad’

As one who was rebuked I stood In silence by the sea ; The stars were pale and faint—a br… Of angel eyes to me: The dim red flush of evening lay

Think not of me as facing death, Tattered, labouring for breath ; Rather think of one who strays Dreaming dreams by perfumed ways. Soon I may die, ah! true, ’tis tr…

Take thou this box, O Heart’s Desire; In it lies thy ring And more, my heart, bleeding ; Take out thy ring,

I WANDER in the dawn to where t… I hear the songs of singing birds;… I hear the faint hum of flies; and… All things fill my soul with prais… I do not ask for dim cathedral pla…

WALKING among men like a phanto… With vacant eyes and listless air, Unmarked, befriended, jeered at, l… Only smiling in reply And drawing into self again

OUT, out into the wind-swept clea… Whose purple canopy, the sky, is b… With the soft splendour of the ful… And a thousand stars that mystical… Strange melodies upborne on the co…

A dead man dead for weeks Is sickening food for lover’s eye That seeks and ever seeks A fair one’s beauty ardently! Did that thing live of late?

Weak and faltering, drifting by, I pray Thee, Lord, take Thou the… No captain of my soul am I, Weak and faltering, drifting by! I do not ask Thee, Whither? Why?

I PRAY to God at night, Tho’ I know not where He is Nor what He is; Nor whether I am right: I pray to God at night.

JUNE! the joyous, sun-filled mon… When roses, emblems of a heaven, c… Strange melodies in garden and in… With blithesome birds that sing in… Of English lanes; and thousand ot…

It is not sweet to die for one’s c… I saw a dead man stinking in a tre… Where even flies would sicken with… Ah! is it sweet to die for one’s c… His face had rotted black as ebony…