‘What are the bugles blowin’ for?’ said Files-on-Parade. ‘To turn you out, to turn you out,’ the Colour-Sergeant said. ‘What makes you…

God of our fathers, known of old,     Lord of our far-flung battle-line, Beneath whose awful Hand we hold     Dominion over palm and…

There’s a certain Slant of light, Winter Afternoons – That oppresses, like the Heft Of Cathedral Tunes – Heavenly Hurt, it gives…

Where the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles, Miles and miles On the solitary pastures where our sheep Half-asleep Tinkle homeward thro’ the…