The world rolls wet with blood,
and the skinny hand of Death
gropes at the beating heart.
The night has come,, I feel the desert dew,
I lie in Afric's sands
And breath the night, for night like these are few
In other lands;
Waft on, thou upward breeze
From the warm south!
And on her wayward mouth
Imprint my far farewells
A red-roofed house is shining to the skies;
A house red-roofed and brilliant in the wind:
A house of colour filled with wandering eyes;
A moon upon a moonlit sea
To me thou art;
And every shining part
Of heaven belong to thee;
Some scarlet poppies lay upon our right.
He watched them through his periscope all day.
He watched then all the day; but in the night
When my poor body died,-Alas!
I watched it topple down a hill
And sink beside a tuft of grass.
I laughed like mad,
When Christmas comes the Christmas heat'll
bring once more the Christmas Beetle
The first inflammatory breeze'll
set him buzzing like a diesel.
The stars, the fields, will know him never-
his friends, his trees, the restless swerving sea.