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Best Famous Close At Hand(P) Poems

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Written by Lewis Carroll | Create an image from this poem

The Walrus and the Carpenter

The sun was shining on the sea,
   Shining with all his might;
He did his very best to make
   The billows smooth and bright—
And this was odd, because it was
   The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,
   Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
   After the day was done—
"It's very rude of him," she said,
   "To come and spoil the fun!"

The sea was wet as wet could be,
   The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
   No cloud was in the sky;
No birds were flying overhead—
   There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
   Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
   Such quantities of sand.
"If this were only cleared away,"
   They said, "it would be grand!"

"If seven maids with seven mops
   Swept it for half a year,
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
   "That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
   And shed a bitter tear.

"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
   The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
   Along the briny beach;
We cannot do with more than four,
   To give a hand to each."

The eldest Oyster looked at him,
   But never a word he said;
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
   And shook his heavy head—
Meaning to say he did not choose
   To leave the oyster-bed.

But four young Oysters hurried up,
   All eager for the treat;
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
   Their shoes were clean and neat—
And this was odd, because, you know,
   They hadn't any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them,
   And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
   And more, and more, and more—
All hopping through the frothy waves,
   And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
   Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
   Conveniently low;
And all the little Oysters stood
   And waited in a row.

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
   "To talk of many things:
Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—
   And cabbages—and kings—
And why the sea is boiling hot—
   And whether pigs have wings."

"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
   "Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
   And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
  They thanked him much for that.

"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
   "Is what we chiefly need;
Pepper and vinegar besides
   Are very good indeed—
Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,
   We can begin to feed."

"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
   Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
   A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said,
   "Do you admire the view?"

"It was so kind of you to come!
   And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
   "Cut us another slice.
I wish you were not quite so deaf—
   I've had to ask you twice!"

"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
   "To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
   And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
   "The butter's spread too thick!"

"I weep for you," the Walrus said;
   "I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
   Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
   Before his streaming eyes.

"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
   "You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?"
   But answer came there none—
And this was scarcely odd, because
   They'd eaten every one.


Written by G K Chesterton | Create an image from this poem

The House of Christmas

 There fared a mother driven forth 
Out of an inn to roam; 
In the place where she was homeless 
All men are at home. 
The crazy stable close at hand, 
With shaking timber and shifting sand, 
Grew a stronger thing to abide and stand 
Than the square stones of Rome. 

For men are homesick in their homes, 
And strangers under the sun, 
And they lay on their heads in a foreign land 
Whenever the day is done. 
Here we have battle and blazing eyes, 
And chance and honour and high surprise, 
But our homes are under miraculous skies 
Where the yule tale was begun. 

A Child in a foul stable, 
Where the beasts feed and foam; 
Only where He was homeless 
Are you and I at home; 
We have hands that fashion and heads that know, 
But our hearts we lost - how long ago! 
In a place no chart nor ship can show 
Under the sky's dome. 

This world is wild as an old wives' tale, 
And strange the plain things are, 
The earth is enough and the air is enough 
For our wonder and our war; 
But our rest is as far as the fire-drake swings 
And our peace is put in impossible things 
Where clashed and thundered unthinkable wings 
Round an incredible star. 

To an open house in the evening 
Home shall men come, 
To an older place than Eden 
And a taller town than Rome. 
To the end of the way of the wandering star, 
To the things that cannot be and that are, 
To the place where God was homeless 
And all men are at home.
Written by Oliver Wendell Holmes | Create an image from this poem

Contentment

 "Man wants but little here below."



LITTLE I ask; my wants are few;
I only wish a hut of stone,
(A very plain brown stone will do,)
That I may call my own;
And close at hand is such a one,
In yonder street that fronts the sun.

Plain food is quite enough for me;
Three courses are as good as ten;--
If Nature can subsist on three,
Thank Heaven for three. Amen!
I always thought cold victual nice;--
My choice would be vanilla-ice.

I care not much for gold or land;--
Give me a mortgage here and there,--
Some good bank-stock, some note of hand, 
Or trifling railroad share,--
I only ask that Fortune send
A little more than I shall spend.

Honors are silly toys, I know,
And titles are but empty names;
I would, perhaps, be Plenipo,--
But only near St. James;
I'm very sure I should not care
To fill our Gubernator's chair.

Jewels are baubles; 't is a sin
To care for such unfruitful things;--
One good-sized diamond in a pin,--
Some, not so large, in rings,--
A ruby, and a pearl, or so,
Will do for me;--I laugh at show.

My dame should dress in cheap attire;
(Good, heavy silks are never dear;) -
I own perhaps I might desire
Some shawls of true Cashmere,--
Some marrowy crapes of China silk,
Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk.

I would not have the horse I drive
So fast that folks must stop and stare;
An easy gait--two forty-five--
Suits me; I do not care;--
Perhaps, for just a single spurt,
Some seconds less would do no hurt.

Of pictures, I should like to own
Titians aud Raphaels three or four,--
I love so much their style and tone,
One Turner, and no more,
(A landscape,--foreground golden dirt,--
The sunshine painted with a squirt.)

Of books but few,--some fifty score
For daily use, and bound for wear;
The rest upon an upper floor;--
Some little luxury there
Of red morocco's gilded gleam
And vellum rich as country cream.

Busts, cameos, gems,--such things as these,
Which others often show for pride,
I value for their power to please,
And selfish churls deride;--
One Stradivarius, I confess,
Two Meerschaums, I would fain possess.

Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn,
Nor ape the glittering upstart fool;--
Shall not carved tables serve my turn,
But all must be of buhl?
Give grasping pomp its double share,--
I ask but one recumbent chair.

Thus humble let me live and die,
Nor long for Midas' golden touch;
If Heaven more generous gifts deny,
I shall not miss them much,--
Too grateful for the blessing lent
Of simple tastes and mind content!
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

The Sausage Candidate-A Tale of the Elections

 Our fathers, brave men were and strong, 
And whisky was their daily liquor; 
They used to move the world along 
In better style than now -- and quicker. 
Elections then were sport, you bet! 
A trifle rough, there's no denying 
When two opposing factions met 
The skin and hair were always flying. 
When "cabbage-trees" could still be worn 
Without the question, "Who's your hatter?" 
There dawned a bright election morn 
Upon the town of Parramatta. 
A man called Jones was all the go -- 
The people's friend, the poor's protector; 
A long, gaunt, six-foot slab of woe, 
He sought to charm the green elector. 

How Jones had one time been trustee 
For his small niece, and he -- the villain! -- 
Betrayed his trust most shamefully, 
And robbed the child of every shillin'. 
He used to keep accounts, they say, 
To save himself in case of trouble; 
Whatever cash he paid away 
He always used to charge it double. 

He'd buy the child a cotton gown 
Too coarse and rough to dress a cat in, 
And then he'd go and put it down 
And charge the price of silk or satin! 
He gave her once a little treat, 
An outing down the harbour sunny, 
And Lord! the bill for bread and meat, 
You'd think they all had eaten money! 

But Jones exposed the course he took 
By carelessness -- such men are ninnies. 
He went and entered in his book, 
"Two pounds of sausages -- two guineas." 
Now this leaked out, and folk got riled, 
And said that Jones, "he didn't oughter". 
But what cared Jones? he only smiled -- 
Abuse ran off his back like water. 

And so he faced the world content: 
His little niece -- he never paid her: 
And then he stood for Parliament, 
Of course he was a rank free trader. 
His wealth was great, success appeared 
To smile propitious on his banner, 
But Providence it interfered 
In this most unexpected manner. 

A person -- call him Brown for short -- 
Who knew the story of this stealer, 
Went calmly down the town and bought 
Two pounds of sausage from a dealer, 
And then he got a long bamboo 
And tightly tied the sausage to it; 
Says he, "This is the thing to do, 
And I am just the man to do it. 

"When Jones comes out to make his speech 
I won't a clapper be, or hisser, 
But with this long bamboo I'll reach 
And poke the sausage in his 'kisser'. 
I'll bring the wretch to scorn and shame, 
Unless those darned police are nigh: 
As sure as Brown's my glorious name, 
I'll knock that candidate sky-high." 

The speech comes on -- beneath the stand 
The people push and surge and eddy 
But Brown waits calmly close at hand 
With all his apparatus ready; 
And while the speaker loudly cries, 
"Of ages all, this is the boss age!" 
Brown hits him square between the eyes, 
Exclaiming, "What's the price of sausage?" 

He aimed the victuals in his face, 
As though he thought poor Jones a glutton. 
And Jones was covered with disgrace -- 
Disgrace and shame, and beef and mutton. 
His cause was lost -- a hopeless wreck 
He crept off from the hooting throng; 
Protection proudly ruled the deck, 
Here ends the sausage and the song.
Written by William Allingham | Create an image from this poem

Places and Men

 In Sussex here, by shingle and by sand, 
Flat fields and farmsteads in their wind-blown trees, 
The shallow tide-wave courses to the land, 
And all along the down a fringe one sees 
Of ducal woods. That 'dim discovered spire' 
Is Chichester, where Collins felt a fire 
Touch his sad lips; thatched Felpham roofs are these, 
Where happy Blake found heaven more close at hand. 

Goodwood and Arundel possess their lords, 
Successive in the towers and groves, which stay; 
These two poor men, by some right of their own, 
Possessed the earth and sea, the sun and moon, 
The inner sweet of life; and put in words 
A personal force that doth not pass away.


Written by Anne Killigrew | Create an image from this poem

To the Queen

 AS those who pass the Alps do say, 
The Rocks which first oppose their way, 
And so amazing-High do show, 
By fresh Accents appear but low, 
And when they come unto the last, 
They scorn the dwarfish Hills th'ave past. 
 So though my Muse at her first flight, 
Thought she had chose the greatest height, 
And (imp'd with Alexander's Name)
Believ'd there was no further Fame: 
Behold an Eye wholly Divine
Vouchsaf'd upon my Verse to Shine! 
And from that time I'gan to treat
With Pitty him the World call'd Great; 
To smile at his exalted Fate, 
Unequal (though Gigantick) State. 

I saw that Pitch was not sublime, 
Compar'd with this which now I climb; 
His Glories sunk, and were unseen, 
When once appear'd the Heav'n-born Queen: 
Victories, Laurels, Conquer'd Kings, 
Took place among inferiour things. 

 Now surely I shall reach the Clouds, 
For none besides such Vertue shrouds: 
Having scal'd this with holy Strains, 
Nought higher but the Heaven remains! 
No more I'll Praise on them bestow, 
Who to ill Deeds their Glories owe; 
Who build their Babels of Renown, 
Upon the poor oppressed Crown, 
Whole Kingdoms do depopulate, 
To raise a Proud and short-Liv'd State: 
I prize no more such Frantick Might, 
Than his that did with Wind-Mills Fight: 
No, give me Prowess, that with Charms
Of Grace and Goodness, not with Harms, 

Erects a Throne i'th' inward Parts, 
And Rules mens Wills, but with their Hearts; 
Who with Piety and Vertue thus
Propitiates God, and Conquers us. 
O that now like Araunah here, 
Altars of Praises I could rear, 
Suiting her worth, which might be seen 
Like a Queens Present, to a Queen! 

 'Alone she stands for Vertues Cause, 
'When all decry, upholds her Laws: 
'When to Banish her is the Strife, 
'Keeps her unexil'd in her Life; 
'Guarding her matchless Innocence
'From Storms of boldest Impudence; 
'In spight of all the Scoffs and Rage, 
'And Persecutions of the Age, 
'Owns Vertues Altar, feeds the Flame, 
'Adores her much-derided Name; 
'While impiously her hands they tie, 
'Loves her in her Captivity; 

'Like Perseus saves her, when she stands
'Expos'd to the Leviathans. 
'So did bright Lamps once live in Urns, 
'So Camphire in the water burns, 
'So Ætna's Flames do ne'er go out, 
'Though Snows do freeze its head without. 

 How dares bold Vice unmasked walk, 
And like a Giant proudly stalk? 
When Vertue's so exalted seen, 
Arm'd and Triumphant in the Queen? 
How dares its Ulcerous Face appear, 
When Heavenly Beauty is so near? 
But so when God was close at hand, 
And the bright Cloud did threatning stand
(In sight of Israel ) on the Tent, 
They on in their Rebellion went. 

 O that I once so happy were, 
To find a nearer Shelter there! 
Till then poor Dove, I wandering fly
Between the Deluge and the Skie: 

Till then I Mourn, but do not sing, 
And oft shall plunge my wearied wing: 
If her bless'd hand vouchsafe the Grace, 
I'th' Ark with her to give a place, 
I safe from danger shall be found, 
When Vice and Folly others drown'd.
Written by Robert Creeley | Create an image from this poem

Clementes Images

 1)

Sleeping birds, lead me,
soft birds, be me

inside this black room,
back of the white moon.

In the dark night
sight frightens me.


2)

Who is it nuzzles there
with furred, round headed stare?

Who, perched on the skin,
body's float, is holding on?

What other one stares still,
plays still, on and on?


3)

Stand upright, prehensile,
squat, determined,

small guardians of the painful
outside coming in --

in stuck in vials with needles,
bleeding life in, particular, heedless.


4)

Matrix of world
upon a turtle's broad back,

carried on like that,
eggs as pearls,

flesh and blood and bone
all borne along.


5)

I'll tell you what you want,
to say a word, 

to know the letters in yourself,
a skin falls off,

a big eared head appears,
an eye and mouth.


6)

Under watery here,
under breath, under duress,

understand a pain
has threaded a needle with a little man --

gone fishing. 
And fish appear.


7)

If small were big,
if then were now,

if here were there,
if find were found,

if mind were all there was,
would the animals still save us?


8)

A head was put
upon the shelf got took


by animal's hand and stuck
upon a vacant corpse

who, blurred, could nonetheless
not ever be the quietly standing bird it watched.


9)

Not lost,
not better or worse,

much must of necessity depend on resources,
the pipes and bags brought with us

inside, all the sacks
and how and to what they are or were attached.


10)

Everybody's child 
walks the same winding road,

laughs and cries, dies.
That's "everybody's child,"

the one who's in between
the others who have come and gone.


11)

Turn as one will, the sky will always be
far up above the place he thinks to dream as earth.

There float the heavenly
archaic persons of primordial birth,

held in the scan of ancient serpent's tooth,
locked in the mind as when it first began.


12)

Inside I am the other of a self,
who feels a presence always close at hand,

one side or the other, knows another one
unlocks the door and quickly enters in.

Either as or, we live a common person.
Two is still one. It cannot live apart.


13)

Oh, weep for me --
all from whom life has stolen

hopes of a happiness stored
in gold's ubiquitous pattern,

in tinkle of commodious, enduring money,
else the bee's industry in hives of golden honey.


14)

He is safely put
in a container, head to foot,

and there, on his upper part, wears still
remnants of a life he lived at will --

but, lower down, he probes at that doubled sack
holds all his random virtues in a mindless fact.


15)

The forms wait, swan,
elephant, crab, rabbit, horse, monkey, cow,

squirrel and crocodile. From the one
sits in empty consciousness, all seemingly has come

and now it goes, to regather,
to tell another story to its patient mother.


16)

Reflection reforms, each man's a life,
makes its stumbling way from mother to wife --

cast as a gesture from ignorant flesh,
here writes in fumbling words to touch,

say, how can I be,
when she is all that was ever me?


17)

Around and in --
And up and down again,

and far and near --
and here and there,

in the middle is
a great round nothingness.


18)

Not metaphoric,
flesh is literal earth.

turns to dust
as all the body must,

becomes the ground
wherein the seed's passed on.


19)

Entries, each foot feels its own way,
echoes passage in persons,

holds the body upright,
the secret of thresholds, lintels,

opening body above it,
looks up, looks down, moves forward.


20)

Necessity, the mother of invention,
father of intention,

sister to brother to sister, to innumerable others,
all one as the time comes,

death's appointment,
in the echoing head, in the breaking heart.


21)

In self one's place defined,
in heart the other find.

In mind discover I,
in body find the sky.

Sleep in the dream as one,
wake to the others there found.


22)

Emptying out
each complicating part,

each little twist of mind inside,
each clenched fist,

each locked, particularizing thought,
forgotten, emptying out.


23)

What did it feel like
to be one at a time --

to be caught in a mind
in the body you'd found

in yourself alone --
in each other one?


24)

Broken hearts, a curious round of echoes --
and there behind them the old garden

with its faded, familiar flowers,
where all was seemingly laced together --

a trueness of true,
a blueness of blue. 


25)

The truth is in a container
of no size or situation.

It has nothing
inside.

Worship --
Warship. Sail away.
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

In Defence of the Bush

 So you're back from up the country, Mister Lawson, where you went, 
And you're cursing all the business in a bitter discontent; 
Well, we grieve to disappoint you, and it makes us sad to hear 
That it wasn't cool and shady -- and there wasn't whips of beer, 
And the looney bullock snorted when you first came into view -- 
Well, you know it's not so often that he sees a swell like you; 
And the roads were hot and dusty, and the plains were burnt and brown, 
And no doubt you're better suited drinking lemon-squash in town. 
Yet, perchance, if you should journey down the very track you went 
In a month or two at furthest, you would wonder what it meant; 
Where the sunbaked earth was gasping like a creature in itts pain 
You would find the grasses waving like a field of summer grain, 
And the miles of thirsty gutters, blocked with sand and choked with mud, 
You would find them mighty rivers with a turbid, sweeping flood. 
For the rain and drought and sunshine make no changes in the street, 
In the sullen line of buildings and the ceaseless tramp of feet; 
But the bush has moods and changes, as the seasons rise and fall, 
And the men who know the bush-land -- they are loyal through it all. 
* 

But you found the bush was dismal and a land of no delight -- 
Did you chance to hear a chorus in the shearers' huts at night? 
Did they "rise up William Riley" by the camp-fire's cheery blaze? 
Did they rise him as we rose him in the good old droving days? 
And the women of the homesteads and the men you chanced to meet -- 
Were their faces sour and saddened like the "faces in the street"? 
And the "shy selector children" -- were they better now or worse 
Than the little city urchins who would greet you with a curse? 
Is not such a life much better than the squalid street and square 
Where the fallen women flaunt it in the fierce electric glare, 
Wher the sempstress plies her needle till her eyes are sore and red 
In a filthy, dirty attic toiling on for daily bread? 
Did you hear no sweeter voices in the music of the bush 
Than the roar of trams and buses, and the war-whoop of "the push"? 
Did the magpies rouse your slumbers with their carol sweet and strange? 
Did you hear the silver chiming of the bell-birds on the range? 
But, perchance, the wild birds' music by your senses was despised, 
For you say you'll stay in townships till the bush is civilized. 
Would you make it a tea-garden, and on Sundays have a band 
Where the "blokes" might take their "donahs", with a "public" close at hand? 
You had better stick to Sydney and make merry with the "push", 
For the bush will never suit you, and you'll never suit the bush.
Written by Thomas Edward Brown | Create an image from this poem

Land Ho!

 I know ’tis but a loom of land, 
Yet is it land, and so I will rejoice, 
I know I cannot hear His voice 
Upon the shore, nor see Him stand; 
Yet is it land, ho! land. 

The land! the land! the lovely land! 
‘Far off,’ dost say? Far off—ah, bless?d home! 
Farewell! farewell! thou salt sea-foam! 
Ah, keel upon the silver sand— 
Land, ho! land. 

You cannot see the land, my land, 
You cannot see, and yet the land is there— 
My land, my land, through murky air— 
I did not say ’twas close at hand— 
But—land, ho! land. 

Dost hear the bells of my sweet land, 
Dost hear the kine, dost hear the merry birds? 
No voice, ’tis true, no spoken words, 
No tongue that thou may’st understand— 
Yet is it land, ho! land. 

It’s clad in purple mist, my land, 
In regal robe it is apparell?d, 
A crown is set upon its head, 
And on its breast a golden band— 
Land, ho! land. 

Dost wonder that I long for land? 
My land is not a land as others are— 
Upon its crest there beams a star, 
And lilies grow upon the strand— 
Land, ho! land. 

Give me the helm! there is the land! 
Ha! lusty mariners, she takes the breeze! 
And what my spirit sees it sees— 
Leap, bark, as leaps the thunderbrand— 
Land, ho! land.
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

How Gilbert Died

 There's never a stone at the sleeper's head, 
There's never a fence beside, 
And the wandering stock on the grave may tread 
Unnoticed and undenied; 
But the smallest child on the Watershed 
Can tell you how Gilbert died. 
For he rode at dusk with his comrade Dunn 
To the hut at the Stockman's Ford; 
In the waning light of the sinking sun 
They peered with a fierce accord. 
They were outlaws both -- and on each man's head 
Was a thousand pounds reward. 

They had taken toll of the country round, 
And the troopers came behind 
With a black who tracked like a human hound 
In the scrub and the ranges blind: 
He could run the trail where a white man's eye 
No sign of track could find. 

He had hunted them out of the One Tree Hill 
And over the Old Man Plain, 
But they wheeled their tracks with a wild beast's skill, 
And they made for the range again; 
Then away to the hut where their grandsire dwelt 
They rode with a loosened rein. 

And their grandsire gave them a greeting bold: 
"Come in and rest in peace, 
No safer place does the country hold -- 
With the night pursuit must cease, 
And we'll drink success to the roving boys, 
And to hell with the black police." 

But they went to death when they entered there 
In the hut at the Stockman's Ford, 
For their grandsire's words were as false as fair -- 
They were doomed to the hangman's cord. 
He had sold them both to the black police 
For the sake of the big reward. 

In the depth of night there are forms that glide 
As stealthily as serpents creep, 
And around the hut where the outlaws hide 
They plant in the shadows deep, 
And they wait till the first faint flush of dawn 
Shall waken their prey from sleep. 

But Gilbert wakes while the night is dark -- 
A restless sleeper aye. 
He has heard the sound of a sheep-dog's bark, 
And his horse's warning neigh, 
And he says to his mate, "There are hawks abroad, 
And it's time that we went away." 

Their rifles stood at the stretcher head, 
Their bridles lay to hand; 
They wakened the old man out of his bed, 
When they heard the sharp command: 
"In the name of the Queen lay down your arms, 
Now, Dun and Gilbert, stand!" 

Then Gilbert reached for his rifle true 
That close at hand he kept; 
He pointed straight at the voice, and drew, 
But never a flash outleapt, 
For the water ran from the rifle breech -- 
It was drenched while the outlaws slept. 

Then he dropped the piece with a bitter oath, 
And he turned to his comrade Dunn: 
"We are sold," he said, "we are dead men both! -- 
Still, there may be a chance for one; 
I'll stop and I'll fight with the pistol here, 
You take to your heels and run." 

So Dunn crept out on his hands and knees 
In the dim, half-dawning light, 
And he made his way to a patch of trees, 
And was lost in the black of night; 
And the trackers hunted his tracks all day, 
But they never could trace his flight. 

But Gilbert walked from the open door 
In a confident style and rash; 
He heard at his side the rifles roar, 
And he heard the bullets crash. 
But he laughed as he lifted his pistol-hand, 
And he fired at the rifle-flash. 

Then out of the shadows the troopers aimed 
At his voice and the pistol sound. 
With rifle flashes the darkness flamed -- 
He staggered and spun around, 
And they riddled his body with rifle balls 
As it lay on the blood-soaked ground. 

There's never a stone at the sleeper's head, 
There's never a fence beside, 
And the wandering stock on the grave may tread 
Unnoticed and undenied; 
But the smallest child on the Watershed 
Can tell you how Gilbert died.

Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry