I have a thousand images of you in an hour; all different and all coming back to the same. I think of you once against a sky line: and on the hill that Sunday morning. The light and the shadow and quietness and the rain and the wood. And you. Your arms and lips and hair and shoulders and voice - you.

There's little comfort in the wise

Proud, then, clear-eyed and laughing, go to greet Death as a friend!

Breathless, we flung us on a windy hill, Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.

And I shall find some girl perhaps, and a better one than you, With eyes as wise, but kindlier, and lips as soft, but true, and I dare say she will do.

The cool kindliness of sheets, that soon smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss of blankets.

I have a thousand images of you in an hour; all different and all coming back to the same. I think of you once against a sky line: and on the hill that Sunday morning. The light and the shadow and quietness and the rain and the wood. And you. Your arms and lips and hair and shoulders and voice - you.