field - Popular Poems and stories from category

In Flanders’ Fields the poppies
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the
The larks, still bravely singing,

What is the task that to the muse belongs
What but to deck in her harmonious songs The beauteous works of nature and of art,
Rural retreats that cheer the heavy heart
Then Marle Field begin, my muse, and sing;

I
Fair Brussels, thou art far behind,
Though, lingering on the morning wind,  We yet may hear the
Pealed over orchard and canal,

[They picked him up in the grass where he had lain two    days in the rain with a piece of shrapnel in his lungs
]Come to me only with playthings now

The Deed of Blood is o'er
And, hark, the Trumpet's mournful breath     Low murmurs round it a Note of Death—        The Mighty are no more
How solemn slow that distant Groan
—    O, could

Mad Patsy said, he said to me,
That every morning he could
An angel walking on the sky;
Across the sunny skies of

Vast and grey, the skyis a simulacrumto all but him whose daysare vast and grey and —In the tall, dried grassesa goat stirswith muzzle searching the ground
My head is in the airbut who am I

The poplars are felled; farewell to the shade,
And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade:
The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves,
Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives

"The poplars are fell'd: farewell to the shade,
And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade;
The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves,
Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives

I'm a pretty little thing,
Always coming with the spring;
In the meadows green I'm found,
Peeping just above the ground,