I remember it now as a clod
Prone in the gardens of God,—
Mean, without honour or beauty,
Justified but by the duty
Of spending its pittance of power
In rearing a heavenly flower.
A CONFESSION OF FAITH
WHO would remember me were I to die,
Remember with a pang and yet no pain;
Remember as a friend, and feel good-bye
Said at each memory as it wakes again?
I would not that a single heart should ache—
That some dear heart will ache is my one grief.
Friends, if I have them, I would fondly take
With me that best of gifts, a friend's belief.
I have believed, and for my faith, reaped tares;
Believed again, and, losing, was content;
A heart perchance touched blindly, unawares,
Rewards with friendship faith thus freely spent.
Bury the body—it has served its ends;
Mark not the spot, but "On Gallipoli,"
Let it be said, "he died." Oh, Hearts of Friends,
If I am worth it, keep my memory.
HEREAFTER
IT'S Autumn-time on Salisbury Plain.
Let it be Autumn-time again
When life is cured of this black pain
And I go home, go home again,
