Robert Laurence Binyon

High on the mountain, shrouded in vast trees,
The stillness had the chastity of frost
I trod the fallen pallors of the moon
The path was paven stone:

A far look in absorbed eyes, unaware Of what some gazer thrills to gather there;
A happy voice, singing to itself apart,
That pulses new blood through a listener's heart;
Old fortitude; and, 'mid an hour of dread,

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free

ME then, as ever, like the wind at morning
Joyous,
O Youth, in the aged world
Freshness to feel the eternities around it,  Rain, stars and clouds, light and the sacred dew

No, though our all be spent— Heart's extremest love,
Spirit's whole intent,
All that nerve can feel,
All that brain invent,— Still beyond appeal Will Divine Desire Yet more excellent Precious cost require Of this mortal stuff,— Neve...

At the road's end glimmer the station lights;
How small beneath the immense hollow of Night's Lonely and living silence
Air that raced And tingled on the eyelids as we faced The long road stretched between the poplars flying To the dark ...

Soft little hands that stray and clutch,
Like fern fronds curl and uncurl bold,
While baby faces lie in
Close sleep as flowers at night that fold,

She was binding the wounds of her enemies when they came— The lint in her hand unrolled
They battered the door with their rifle-butts, crashed it in: She faced them gentle and bold
They haled her before the judges where they sat In their...

I come among the peoples like a shadow
I sit down by each man's side
None sees me, but they look on one another,
And know that I am there

Ah, now this happy month is gone,
Not now, my heart, complain,
Nor rail at Time because so soon He takes his own again
He takes his own, the weeks, the hours,

What is lovelier than rain that lingers Falling through the western light
The light that's red between my fingers Bathes infinite heaven's remotest height
Whither will the cloud its darkness carry Whose trembling drops about me spill

In the high leaves of a walnut,
On the very topmost boughs,
A boy that climbed the branching bole His cradled limbs would house
On the airy bed that rocked him Long, idle hours he'd lie Alone with white clouds sailing The warm blue ...