W.J. Turner

When I am dead a few poor souls shall grieve As I grieved for my brother long ago. Scarce did my eyes grow dim,

I saw a frieze on whitest marble drawn Of boys who sought for shells along the shore, Their white feet shedding pallor in the sea,

The pebbly brook is cold to-night, Its water soft as air, A clear, cold, crystal-bodied wind

In low chalk hills the great King's body lay, And bright streams fell, tinkling like polished tin, As though they carried off his armoury,

When I was but thirteen or so I went into a golden land, Chimborazo, Cotopaxi

It was bright day and all the trees were still In the deep valley, and the dim Sun glowed; The clay in hard-baked fire along the hill

Gently, sorrowfully sang the maid Sowing the ploughed field over, And her song was only:

The mind of the people is like mud, From which arise strange and beautiful things, But mud is none the less mud,

He carved the red deer and the bull Upon the smooth cave rock, Returned from war with belly full,

"But there was one land he dared not enter." Beyond the blue, the purple seas, Beyond the thin horizon's line,

The stone-grey roses by the desert's rim Are soft-edged shadows on the moonlit sand, Grey are the broken walls of Khangavar,

"A German aeroplane flew over Greek territory dropping a bomb which killed a shepherd." 'Sitting on a stone a Shepherd, Stone and Shepherd sleeping,

I love a still conservatory That's full of giant, breathless palms, Azaleas, clematis and vines,