Martin Hill
We wander 'mid the grassfield where
The busy reaper wends his way,
The sharp scythe flashes on the air,
Heavy the scent of new-mown hay
Floats down the breeze, and all around
The stricken poppies strew the ground.
Slowly my half -felt sorrows go
And hope comes, gazing seaward where
The dim cliffs glitter, for I know
That these and you await me there,
And I shall find them dearer far
Enriched by all the pangs of war.
Requiescat
HOW young and bright he was, and when he laughed
The air around seemed sharing in his joy;
Fair was the world to him, nor spot nor stain
Of all its hidden ugliness had laid
A mark upon his face (that mark that sears
And brands the souls that know it but too well);
But all that's lovely in it lay beneath
The wonder that shone shyly in his eyes.
A child of Nature he, of woods and sunlit ways,
Of rolling meadows where the air was sweet
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