Alec de Candole

(1897-1918 / England)

Alec de Candole Poems

1. The Breath Of God 9/25/2010
2. The Soil Of The Land Is Holy 9/25/2010
3. The Sunset Clouds 9/25/2010
4. The Truth Of God Is Known 9/25/2010
5. The Wind That Blustered 9/25/2010
6. We Gaze Upon The Apple-Flower 9/25/2010
7. Christmas, 1917 9/25/2010
8. England 9/25/2010
9. Friendship 9/25/2010
10. Heredity 9/25/2010
11. In Cruce Regnans 9/25/2010
12. In Memoriam 9/25/2010
13. Laudabunt Alii 9/25/2010
14. Lincoln Minister 9/25/2010
15. Nightfall 9/25/2010
16. On A Picture In Rome 9/25/2010
17. On A Sonnet Of Rupert Brooke 9/25/2010
18. Proficiscienti 9/25/2010
19. Salisbury Cathedral 9/25/2010
20. Sunset 9/25/2010
21. The Burial Of Arthur 9/25/2010
22. The Poets 9/25/2010
23. Time 9/25/2010
24. Uti Conviva Satur 9/25/2010
25. Weariness 9/25/2010
26. When The Long Last Trek Is Over 9/25/2010
27. The Old, The Bitter, Everlasting Why 9/25/2010
28. And If A Bullet 9/25/2010
29. As One That Stands 9/25/2010
30. As One Who Wanders 9/25/2010
31. Changeful With Glow And Chequered Shade 9/25/2010
32. For Them, The Bitterness Of Death Is Past 9/25/2010
33. Hast Thou Beheld A Night 9/25/2010
34. Here's To The Glory Of Life 9/25/2010
35. In That Rough Barn We Knelt 9/25/2010
36. Not Once, But Often 9/25/2010
37. O God, For Truth 9/25/2010
38. I Have Not Lived In Vain 9/25/2010
39. O Sleep, Sweet Sleep 9/25/2010

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Best Poem of Alec de Candole

O Sleep, Sweet Sleep

O Sleep, sweet sleep, come over me.
And waft me to the land of dreams.
Where everywhere flow copious streams
Of honeyed wine, and every tree
Hangs down its branches to the ground
Fruit-laden, and on all sides round
The land smiles, beautiful and free.

No pain is there, nor any toil;
Far from the din of human life.
Far from the harsh unlovely strife.
Far from the tumult and the moil
Of struggling men, — there, far away.
In that sweet land the flowers of May
Spring aye unbidden from the soil.

O glorious land of dreams! I long

Read the full of O Sleep, Sweet Sleep

And If A Bullet

And if a bullet in the midst of strife
Should still the pulse of this unquiet life
Twere well: be death an everlasting rest,
I oft could yearn for it, by cares opprest ;
And be 't a night that brings another day,
I still could go rejoicing on my way,
Desiring in no phantom heav'n to dwell.
Nor scared with terror of any phantom hell.
But gazing now I find not death a curse

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