Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/156

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Thou silly thing, off to thy daisies go.

Mine was not news for child to know,

And Death—no ears hath. He hath supped where creep

Eyeless worms in hush of sleep;

Yet, when he smiles, the hand he draws

Athwart his grinning jaws

Faintly their thin bones rattle, and. . . There, there;

Hearken how my bells in the air

Drive away care! . ..

Nay, but a dream I had

Of a world all mad.

Not a simple happy mad like me,

Who am mad like an empty scene

Of water and willow tree,

Where the wind hath been

But that foul Satan-mad,

Who rots in his own head,

And counts the dead,

Not honest one—and two—

But for the ghosts they were,

Brave, faithful, true,

When head in air,

In Earth's clear green and blue

Heaven they did share

With Beauty who bade them there. . ..

There, now! he goes—

Old Bones; I've wearied him.

Ay, and the light doth dim,

And asleep's the rose,

And tired Innocence

In dreams is hence. . ..

Come, Love, my lad,

Nodding that drowsy head,

'Tis time thy prayers were said. Walter de la Mare