So now I take a bitter road Whereon no bourne I see, And wearily I lift the load That once I bore with glee. For me no more by sea or shore Adventure’s star
When I was with a Shakespeare show I played the part of Guildenstern, Or Rosenkrantz – at least I know It wasn’t difficult to learn; By Reader, do not at me scoff, For futhermore
“A year to live,” the Doctor said; “There is no cure,” and shook his head. Ah me! I felt as good as dead. Yet quite resigned to fate was I, Thinking: “Well, since I
(He speaks.) Walking, walking, oh, the joy of walking! Swinging down the tawny lanes with head held high; Striding up the green hills, through the heather stalking, Swishing through the woodlands where the brown
Of bosom friends I’ve had but seven, Despite my years are ripe; I hope they’re now enjoying Heaven, Although they’re not the type; Nor, candidly, no more am I, Though overdue to die. For
‘Tis true my garments threadbare are, And sorry poor I seem; But inly I am richer far Than any poet’s dream. For I’ve a hidden life no one Can ever hope to see; A
Beneath the trees I lounged at ease And watched them speed the pace; They swerved and swung, they clutched and clung, They leapt in roaring chase; The crowd was thrilled, a chap was killed:
To tribulations of mankind Dame Nature is indifferent; To human sorrow she is blind, And deaf to human discontent. Mid fear and fratricidal fray, Mid woe and tyranny of toil, She goes her unregarding
You want me to tell you a story, a yarn of the firin’ line, Of our thin red kharki ‘eroes, out there where the bullets whine; Out there where the bombs are bustin’, And
He dreamed away his hours in school; He sat with such an absent air, The master reckoned him a fool, And gave him up in dull despair. When other lads were making hay You’d
‘God’ is composed of letters three, But if you put an ‘l’ Before the last it seems to me A synonym for Hell. For all of envy, greed and hate The human heart can