Robert Laurence Binyon Poems

Ah, now this happy month is gone,
Not now, my heart, complain,
Nor rail at Time because so soon
He takes his own again.
...

As in the dusty lane to fern or flower,
Whose freshness in hot noon is dried and dead,
Sweet comes the dark with a full--falling shower,
...

As I walked through London,
The fresh wound burning in my breast,
As I walked through London,
...

I am weary of doing and dating
The day with the thing to be done,
This painful self translating
To a language not my own.
...

The little waves fall in the wintry light
On idle sands along the bitter shore.
The piling clouds are all a pale suspended flight;
...

I
Now is the time for the burning of the leaves.
They go to the fire; the nostril pricks with smoke
Wandering slowly into a weeping mist.
...

Because thou art nearest
To the mystery of the fire
That is Earth's and the soul's
And the body's desire,
...

Sweetest of all delights are the vainest, merest;
Hours when breath is joy, for the breathing's sake.
Summer awoke this morning, and early awake
...

Peace is perfect over
All the hills.
Scarce wilt thou discover
A breath, so still's
...

Trefoil and Quatrefoil!
What shaped those destinied small silent leaves
Or numbered them under the soil?
I lift my dazzled sight
...