This page needs to be proofread.
EDWARD THOMAS
And willows, willow-herb, and grass, And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry, No whit less still and lonely fair Than the high cloudlets in the sky.
And for that minute a blackbird sang Close by, and round him, mistier, Farther and farther, all the birds Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.
��ALFRED NOYES
Art
YES' Beauty still rebels' Our dreams like clouds disperse:
She dwells In agate, marble, verse.
No false constraint be thine' But, for right walking, choose
The fine, The strict cothurnus, Muse.
Vainly ye seek to escape The toil ' The yielding phrase
Ye shape Is clay, not chrysoprase.
And all in vain ye scorn
That seeming ease which ne'er
Was born Of aught but love and care.
�� �
