William Gordon McCabe Poems

I picture her there in the quaint old room,
Where the fading fire-light starts and falls,
Alone in the twilight's tender gloom
...

The wintry blast goes wailing by,
The snow is falling overhead;
I hear the lonely sentry's tread,
And distant watch-fires light the sky.
...

What shall we say now of our knight,
Or how express the measure of our woe
For him who rode the foremost in the fight,
...