If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
War is never over
Thought the treaties may be signed
The memories of the battles
Are forever in our minds
War is never over
So when you welcome heroes home
Remember in their minds they hold
Memories known to them alone
You're in this dream of cotton plants.
You raise a hoe, swing, and the first weeds
Fall with a sigh. You take another step,
Chop, and the sigh comes again,
Until you yourself are breathing that way
With each step, a sigh that will follow you into town.
That's hours later. The sun is a red blister
Coming up in your palm. Your back is strong,
Young, not yet the broken chair
He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park
Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,
Voices of play and pleasure after day,
Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.
About this time Town used to swing so gay
When glow-lamps budded in the light blue trees,
And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim,-
Happy are men who yet before they are killed
Can let their veins run cold.
Whom no compassion fleers
Or makes their feet
Sore on the alleys cobbled with their brothers.
The front line withers,
But they are troops who fade, not flowers
For poets' tearful fooling:
sitting on a chair
waiting for love to return
when the school bells ring
the birds are singing
but purple teddy is blue
the young days of spring
the clock keeps ticking
as saffron day grows older
Amaryllises fill the flower lover's small, white cottage,
In pinks, apricots and burgundy, near summer's edge.
I resided in a beautiful old home, on the sunny side of the street;
And I had friendly neighbors, offering hellos whenever we'd meet.
Often when I was off from work, I puttered in my house or garden,
As cool breezy treetop swings, are the select favorites of red robin.
My friends and I would sometimes gather, for backyard barbecues,
Like puffy clouds gather together, to experience the shades of blue.
I was the owner a curio shop, which sold souvenirs and rare items,
I hear the raindrops pattering as they kiss the tin roof,
and fill the air with their slow soothing smell.
The pine fire is crackling;
shedding its warmth across the room, thawing my heart.
The familiar laughter on seeing the old rusted photographs
refreshes numerous old tales and various
bonds that had become milky with time.
The wild wind brings with it the flavor of flowers
and fireflies which sit upon the clay vessel.
The yonder chirping cricket
At last I was a fruitful writer, and my new novel was selling well,
Like the stars of a moonlit evening, putting lovers under a spell.
I had ever loved self expression, the power and beauty of words,
Like the beauty of marshmallow clouds, migrating skies in herds.
It all began back in my childhood, when I never left books alone,
As the magic of loved fairytales, whisks children to another zone!
Now that I was making more money, recently I'd bought a home,