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Walter de la Mare
1873 - 1956

AN EPITAPH

HERE lies a most beautiful lady,
    Light of step and heart was she:
I think she was the most beautiful lady
    That ever was in the West Country.
But beauty vanishes; beauty passes;
    However rare, rare it be;
And when I crumble who shall remember
    This lady of the West Country?

NOVEMBER

THERE is wind where the rose was,

Cold rain where sweet grass was,

And clouds like sheep

Stream o'er the steep

Grey skies where the lark was.

 

Nought warm where your hand was,

Nought gold where your hair was,

But phantom, forlorn,

Beneath the thorn,

Your ghost where your face was.

 

Cold wind where your voice was,

Tears, tears where my heart was,

And ever with me,

Child, ever with me,

Silence where hope was.

Napoleon

'WHAT is the world, O soldiers?

       It is I:

I, this incessant snow,

This northern sky;

Soldiers, this solitude

Through which we go

       Is I.'

© 2000 Elena and Yacov Feldman