The Sun at noon to higher air, Unharnessing the silver Pair That late before his chariot swam, Rides on the gold wool of the Ram… So braver notes the storm-cock sin…

Soldier from the wars returning, Spoiler of the taken town, Here is ease that asks not earning… Turn you in and sit you down. Peace is come and wars are over,

'Tis spring; come out to ramble The hilly brakes around, For under thorn and bramble About the hollow ground The primroses are found.

Here dead we lie Because we did not choose To live and shame the land From which we sprung. Life, to be sure,

From far, from eve and morning And yon twelve-winded sky, The stuff of life to knit me Blew hither: here am I. Now—for a breath I tarry

I ‘listed at home for a lancer, Oh who would not sleep with the br… I ’listed at home for a lancer To ride on a horse to my grave. And over the seas we were bidden

The time you won your town the rac… We chaired you through the market-… Man and boy stood cheering by, And home we brought you shoulder-h… To-day, the road all runners come,

The Wain upon the northern steep Descends and lifts away. Oh I will sit me down and weep For bones in Africa. For pay and medals, name and rank,

When I would muse in boyhood The wild green woods among, And nurse resolves and fancies Because the world was young, It was not foes to conquer,

From Clee to heaven the beacon bu… The shires have seen it plain, From north and south the sign retu… And beacons burn again. Look left, look right, the hills a…

Look not in my eyes, for fear Thy mirror true the sight I see, And there you find your face too c… And love it and be lost like me. One the long nights through must l…

Good creatures, do you love your l… And have you ears for sense? Here is a knife like other knives, That cost me eighteen pence. I need but stick it in my heart

The chestnut casts his flambeaux,… Stream from the hawthorn on the wi… The doors clap to, the pane is bli… Pass me the can, lad; there’s an e… There’s one spoilt spring to scant…

The mill-stream, now that noises c… Is all that does not hold its peac… Under the bridge it murmurs by, And here are night and hell and I… Who made the world I cannot tell;

Farewell to a name and a number Recalled again To darkness and silence and slumbe… In blood and pain. So ceases and turns to the thing