Lloyd Roberts Poems

He sees the rosy apples cling like flowers to the bough:
He plucks the purple plums and spills the cherries on the grass;
He wanted peace and silence,–God gives him plenty now–
His feet upon the mountain and his shadow on the pass.
...

Did you ever meet Miss Pixie of the Spruces,
Did you ever glimpse her mocking elfin face,
Did you ever hear her calling while the whip-poor-wills were calling,
And slipped your pack and taken up the chase?
...

England's cliffs are white like milk,
But England's fields are green;
The grey fogs creep across the moors,
But warm suns stand between.
And not so far from London town, beyond the brimming street,
A thousand little summer winds are singing in the wheat.
...

Each morning they sit down to their little bites of bread,
To six warm bowls of porridge and a broken mug or two.
And each simple soul is happy and each hungry mouth is fed–
Then why should she be smiling as the weary-hearted do?
...

Between the blackened curbs lie stacked the harvest of the skies,
Long lines of frozen, grimy cocks befouled by city feet;
On either side the racing throngs, the crowding cliffs, the cries,
And ceaseless winds that eddy down to whip the iron street.
...

Come quietly, Britain, all together, come!
It is time!
We have waited, weighed, and wondered
Who had blundered;
Stared askance at one another
As our brother slew our brother,
...