Black rolls the phantom chimney-smoke
Beneath the wintry moon;
77 lines, 1 comment
Out in a world of death far to the northward lying,
Under the sun and the moon, under the dusk and the day;
24 lines, 1 comment
Soft fall the February snows, and soft Falls on my heart the snow of wintry pain;
85 lines, 1 comment
She lay, face downward, on her beaded arm, In this her new, sweet dream of human bliss,
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He wandered into the market With pipes and goatish hoof;
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The woods are haggard and lonely,
The skies are hooded for
20 lines, 2 comments
For weeks and weeks the autumn world stood still, Clothed in the shadow of a smoky haze;
33 lines, 1 comment
Trim the sails the weird stars under—
Past the iron hail and thunder,
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SEASON of life's renewal, love's rebirth,
And all hope's young espousals; in your dream,
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ENGLAND, England, England,
Girdled by ocean and skies,
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OUT forever and forever,
Where our tresses glint and shiver
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THEY lingered on the middle heights
Betwixt the brown earth and the heaven;
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IT was April, blossoming spring,
They buried me, when the birds did sing;
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MASTER of life, the day is done;
My sun of life is sinking low;
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Out over my study,
All ashen and ruddy,
20 lines, 1 comment
In byre and barn the mows are brim with sheaves,
Where stealeth in with phosphorescent tread
14 lines, 1 comment
Down out of heaven,
Frost-kissed
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Along the line of smoky hills
The crimson forest stands,
12 lines, 3 comments
Sweet, sweet and the soft listening heaven reels In one blue ecstasy above thy song
37 lines, 4 comments
Carven in leathern mask or brazen face,
Were I time's scul
14 lines, 1 comment
Life is too grim with anxious, eating care
To cherish&nbs
14 lines, 1 comment
I am a slave, both dumb and blind,
Upon a journey dre
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Strange wanderer out of the deeps, Whence, journeying, come you?
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There is borne on my sight, down the spaces of night,
By the engines of evilment sped,
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The doors are shut, the windows fast;
Outside the gust is driving past,
24 lines, 1 comment
This is the ballad of Langemarck, A story of glory and might;
131 lines, 1 comment
When we come to the end of the furrow, When our last day's work is done,
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There dwells a spirit in the budding year--
As motherhood doth beautify the face--
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Already Winter in his sombre round,
Before his time, hath touched these hills austere
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This summer day is all one palace rare,
Builded by architects of life unseen,
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