R. Watson Kerr
The Ancient Thought
THE round moon hangs like a yellow lantern in the trees
That lie like lace against the silk blue sky;
O still the night! O hushed the breeze—
Surely God is very nigh.
At the Base
THINK not of me as facing Death,
Tattered, labouring for breath;
Rather think of one who strays
Dreaming dreams by perfumed ways.
Soon I may die, ah, true, 'tis true,
But look! the night is rich with blue
Of peaceful skies, and soft the breeze
Sings in the trembling poplar trees!
And slowly thro' the rustling grass
O'er woodland glade, I, dreaming, pass;
To-morrow? Death? Ah, what are these
But passing childish phantasies!
France, July, 1917.
83
