Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares…
Why do you lie with your legs ungainly huddled, And one arm bent across your sullen, cold, Exhausted face? It…
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still…
I’ve watched the Seasons passing slow, so slow, In the fields between La Bassée and Bethune; Primroses and the first…