Chelsea
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How many of those youths who consecrate Their lives to art, and worship at her shrine, And sacrifice their early hours and late In serving her exacting whims divine Have gathered in old Chelsea's shaded peace, Whose faint, elusive charm, and gentle airs, Bring inspiration fresh, and sweet release From Trouble's haunting shapes and goblin cares? O! tree-embowered hamlet, whose demesne Sleeps in the arms of London quietly, Whose sparrow-haunted roads, and squares serene, From all the stress of life seem ever free— O! are you more than just a passing dream Beside the city's slim and lovely stream? Luxeuil-les-Bains, 1917. |
K.L.H.
Died of Wounds Received at the Dardanelles.
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Where stern grey busts of gods and heroes old Frown down upon the corridors' chill stone, On which the sunbeam's amber pale is thrown From leaf-fringed windows, one of quiet mould Gazed long at those white chronicles which told Of honours that the stately School had known. He read the names: and wondered if his own Would ever grace the walls in letters bold. He knew not that he for the School would gain A greater honour with a greater price— That, no long years of work, but bitter pain And his rich life, he was to sacrifice— Not in a University's grey peace, But on the hilly sun-baked Chersonese. H.M.S. "Manica," Dardanelles, 1915. |