The Old Happiness Is Unreturning. Boy's Griefs

Then, When Much Blood Had Clogged Their Chariot-wheels I Would Go Up And Wash Them From Sweet Wells, Even With Truths That Lie Too Deep For Taint. I Would Have Poured My Spirit Without Stint But Not Through Wounds; Not On The Cess Of War.

My Friend, You Would Not Tell With Such High Zest To Children Ardent For Some Desperate Glory. The Old Lie: It Is Sweet And Fitting That You Should Die For Your Country.

Walking Abroad, One Is The Admiration Of All Little Boys, And Meets An Approving Glance From Every Eye Of Elderly.

When I Begin To Eliminate From The List All Those Professions Which Are Impossible From A Financial Point Of View And Then Those Which I Feel Disinclined To-it Leaves Nothing

Winter Song The Browns, The Olives, And The Yellows Died, And Were Swept Up To Heaven; Where They Glowed Each Dawn And Set Of Sun Till Christmastide, And When The Land Lay Pale For Them, Pale-snowed, Fell Back, And Down The Snow-drifts Flamed And Flowed. From Off Your Face, Into The Winds Of Winter, The Sun-brown And The Summer-gold Are Blowing; But They Shall Gleam With Spiritual Glinter, When Paler Beauty On Your Brows Falls Snowing, And Through Those Snows My Looks Shall Be Soft-going.