Page:Marlborough and other poems, Sorley, 1919.djvu/36



The King! The King!

Long is the road but—

Brother, see,

There, to the left, a very aisle

Composed of every sort of tree—

Still onward—

Oak and beech and birch,

Like a church, but homelier than church,

The black trunks for its walls of tile;

Its roof, old leaves; its floor, beech nuts;

The squirrels its congregation—

Tuts!

For still we journey—

But the sun weaves

A water-web across the grass,

Binding their tops. You must not pass

The water cobweb.

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