VEIL thine eyes, O belovéd, my spouse,
Turn them away,
Lest in their light my life withdrawn
Dies as a star, as a star in the day,
As a dream in the dawn.

Low in the east, against a white, cold dawn,
The black-lined silhouette of the woods was drawn,
And on a wintry waste
Of frosted streams and hillsides bare and brown,
Through thin cloud-films, a pallid ghost looked down,
The waning moon half-faced!

The Army Surgeon

© Sydney Thompson Dobell

Over that breathing waste of friends and foes,

The wounded and the dying, hour by hour,-

The Indifferent

© Francis Beaumont

Never more will I protest,
To love a woman but in jest:
For as they cannot be true,
So, to give each man his due,
When the wooing fit is past
Their affection cannot last.

Then

© Harry Kemp

When all the sea's high ships
Have dropped beyond my sky
And life's trumpet leaves my lips
And women pass me by -
Dear God, let me die!

To Sleep

© Walter Savage Landor

COME, Sleep! but mind ye! if you come without
The little girl that struck me at the rout,
By Jove! I would not give you half-a-crown
For all your poppy-heads and all your down.

The Bewildered Guest

© William Dean Howells

I WAS not asked if I should like to come.

I have not seen my host here since I came,

The Garden

© Aline Murray Kilmer

AND now it is all to be done over again,
And what will come of it only God can know.
What has become of the furrows ploughed by pain,
And the plants set row on row?

The House Of Dust: Part 01: 01:

© Conrad Aiken

The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light.
The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east:
And lights wink out through the windows, one by one.
A clamor of frosty sirens mourns at the night.
Pale slate-grey clouds whirl up from the sunken sun.

Trafalgar Day

© Edith Nesbit

LAURELS, bring laurels, sheaves on sheaves,

Till England's boughs are bare of leaves!

The Laird Of Waristoun

© Andrew Lang

Down by yon garden green,
Sae merrily as she gaes;
She has twa weel-made feet,
And she trips upon her taes.

That Pretty Girl in the Army

© Henry Lawson

Now I often sit at Wattys, when the night is very near
With a head thats full of jingles and the fumes of bottled beer;
For I always have a fancy that, if I am over there
When the Army prays for Watty, Im included in the prayer.

The Bulletin Hotel

© Henry Lawson

Tis a big soft-hearted spider in a land where life is grim,
And a web of great good-nature that brings worn-out flies to him:
Tis the club of many lost souls in the wide Westralian hell,
And the stage of many Mitchells is the Bulletin Hotel.