Western wind, when will thou blow
The small rain down can rain?
Christ, if my love were in my arms
And I in my bed again!
The modest Rose puts forth a thorn,
The humble sheep a threat'ning horn:
While the Lily white shall in love delight,
Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright.
The lily has an air,
And the snowdrop a grace,
And the sweetpea a way,
And the heartsease a face, -
Yet there's nothing like the rose
When she blows.
Camelot in mist
years plunging 'neath the mortal waves
ideals lost at sea
(Previously published in Borders and Time.)
Before long the end
Of the beginning
Begins to bend
To the beginning
Of the end you live
With some misgivings
About what you did.
If you're attacked by a Lion
Find fresh underpants to try on
Lay on the ground quite still
Pretend you are very ill
Keep like that day after day
Perhaps the lion will go away
The Lion, the Lion, he dwells in the Waste,
He has a big head and a very small waist;
But his shoulders are stark, and his jaws they are grim,
And a good little child will not play with him.
The Beasts that be
In wood and waste,
Now sit and see,
Nor ride nor haste.
Oh, weep for Mr. and Mrs. Bryan!
He was eaten by a lion;
Following which, the lion's lioness
Up and swallowed Bryan's Bryaness.
With twilight shadows in my heart
I have driven up among the Leyou Tombs
To see the sun, for all his glory,
Buried by the coming night.
