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The grim dawn lightens thin bleak clouds; In the hill clefts beyond the flooded meadows Lies death-pale, death-still mist. We trudge along wearily, Heavy with lack of sleep, Spiritless, yet with pretence of gaiety. The sun brings crimson to the colourless sky; Light gleams from brass and steel— We trudge on wearily— O God, end this bleak anguish Soon, soon, with vivid crimson death, End it in mist-pale sleep!
This poem is in the public domain.
I am a garden of red tulips And late daffodils and bay-hedges, A small sunk garden About an oblong pool With three grey lead Dutch tanks— I am this garden shattered and blown With a day-long western gale And bursts of rapid rain. There are dank petals in the ruffled waters, And muddy flowers upon the path. The grass is covered with torn leaves. God of gardens, dear small god of gardens, Grant me faint glow of sunlight, A last bird hopping in the quiet haze, Then let the night swoop swiftly, Fold round and crush out life For ever.
Vagabonds of beauty, Wistful exquisite waifs From a lost, and a forgotten, and a lovely land, We cannot comfort you Though our souls yearn for you. You are delicate strangers In a gloomy town, Stared at and hated— Gold crocus blossoms in a drab lane. We cannot comfort you; Your life is anguish; All we can do— Mutely bring pungent herbs and branches of oak And resinous scented pine wreaths To hid the crown of thorny pain Crushing your white frail foreheads.
They have torn the gold tettinx From my hair; And wrenched the bronze sandals From my ankles. They have taken from me my friend Who knew the holy wisdom of poets, Who had drunk at the feast Where Simonides sang. No more do I walk the calm gardens In the white mist of olives; No more do I take the rose-crown From the white hands of a maiden. I, who was free, am a slave; The Muses have forgotten me, The gods do not hear me. Here there are no flowers to love; But afar off I dream that I see Bent poppies and the deathless asphodel.