Paul Bewsher

When Death has crossed my name from out the roll Of dreaming children serving in this War; And with these earthly eyes I gaze no more

That I were Keats! And with a golden pen Could for all time preserve these golden days In rich and glowing verse, for poorer men,

How many of those youths who consecrate Their lives to art, and worship at her shrine, And sacrifice their early hours and late

Above the clouds I sail, above the clouds, And wish my mind Above its clouds could climb as well,

'Tis strange to leave this world of woods and hills, This world of little farms, and shady mills, - Of fields, and water-meadows fair,

How bright is Earth's rich gown None but an Airman knows Yellow, and green, and brown -

The long and tedious months move slowly by And February's chill has fled away Before the gales of March, and now e'en they

You mortals see the sky - I only see the ground, As through the air I fly.

When through the heat of some long afternoon In blazing August, on the grass I lie, And watch the white clouds move across the sky,

Here slow decay with creeping finger peels The yellow plaster from the grimy walls, Like leprous lichen, day by day which falls,

DIED OF WOUNDS RECEIVED AT THE DARDANELLES. Where stern grey busts of gods and heroes old Frown down upon the corridors' chill stone,

Two long, full years have passed since I have smelt Sweet London in this happy month of May! Last year relentless War bore me away

I love the little daisies on the lawn Which contemplate with wide and placid eyes The blue and white enamel of the skies -

The rich, red blood Doth stain the fair, green grass, and daisies white In generous flood ...

Sometimes I fly at dawn above the sea, Where, underneath, the restless waters flow - Silver, and cold, and slow.

Now have I left the world and all its tears, And high above the sunny cloud-banks fly, Alone in all this vast and lonely sky -

The day is cold; the wind is strong; And through the sky great cloud-banks throng, While swathes of snow lie on the ground

When heavy on my tired mind The world, and worldly things, do weigh, And some sweet solace I would find,

Around me broods the dim, mysterious Night, Star-lit and still. No whisper comes across the Plain,

Sad is the lonely sea - So vast, and smooth, and grey It stretches far from me.

I stood, one azure dusk, in old Auxerre Before the grey Cathedral's towering height, And in the Eastern darkness, very fair

KILLED IN AN AEROPLANE ACCIDENT, JULY, 1916 It was Thy will, O God. And so he died! For seventeen sweet years he was a child

ON HER SEVENTEENTH BIRTHDAY. Now has rich time brought you a gift of gold - A long sweet year which you can shape at will,