There's Little Comfort In The Wise

And In My Flower-beds, I Think, Smile The Carnation And The Pink.

These Laid The World Away; Poured Out The Red Sweet Wine Of Youth; Gave Up The Years To Be Of Work And Joy, And That Unhoped Serene, That Men Call Age; And Those Who Would Have Been, Their Sons, They Gave, Their Immortality.

If I Should Die, Think Only This Of Me: That There's Some Corner Of A Foreign Field That Is For Ever England.

Yet, Behind The Night, Waits For The Great Unborn, Somewhere Afar, Some White Tremendous Daybreak.

Cities, Like Cats, Will Reveal Themselves At Night.