Waterloo Field

Deep, deep the sleep of heroes laid to rest
In hollows watered by their youthful blood.

Deep, deep the silence on the smoking plain
Where horse and rider will not rise again.

Deep, deep the ploughshare’s furrow like a wound
Across their common grave in fallow ground.

Deep, deep the yellow of the ripened corn
Which falls before the reaper’s scythe at dawn.

Deep, deep the snow whose icy funeral pall
Bedecks the dead and slowly covers all.


The geraniums are in

The geraniums are in
And the logs are piled high,
The chestnuts are gathered
And across the grey sky
The wild ducks are flying
Away, away,
We’ll come back in Springtime,
Some day, some day!