How can i pretty

      6

London, my beautiful,it is not the sunsetnor the pale green skyshimmering through the curtainof the silver birch,nor the quietness;it is not the hoppingof birdsupon the lawn,nor the darknessstealing over all thingsthat moves me.

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But as the moon creeps slowlyover the tree-topsamong the stars,I think of herand the glow her passingsheds on the men.

London, my beautiful,I will climbinto the branchesto the moonlit tree-tops,that my blood may be cooledby the wind.



I know this room,and there are corridors:the pictures, I have seen before;the statues & those gems in casesI have wandered by before,—stood there silent and lonelyin a dream of years ago.

I know the dark of night is all around me;my eyes are closed, & I am half asleep.My wife breathes gently at my side.

But once again this old dream is within me,and I am on the threshold waiting,wondering, pleased, and fearful.Where vày those doors lead,what rooms lie beyond them?I venture…

But my baby moves và tossesfrom side khổng lồ side,and her need calls me lớn her.

Now I stand awake, unseeing,in the dark,and I move towards her cot…I shall not reach her… There is no direction…I shall walk on…


F. S. Flint

1917



Immortal?... No,they cannot be, these people,nor I.

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Tired faces,eyes that have never seen the world,bodies that have never lived in air,lips that have never minted speech,they are the clipped và garbled,blocking the highway.They swarm and eddybetween the banks of glowing shopstowards the red meat,the potherbs,the cheapjacks,or surge inbefore the swift rushof the clanging trams,—pitiful, ugly, mean,encumbering.

Immortal?...In a wood,watching the shadow of a birdleap from frond khổng lồ frond of bracken,I am immortal.

But these?


F. S. Flint

1917



The grass is beneath my head;and I gazeat the thronging starsin the night.

They fall… they fall…I am overwhelmed,and afraid.

Each leaf of the aspenis caressed by the wind,and each is crying.

And the perfumeof invisible rosesdeepens the anguish.

Let a strong mesh of rootsfeed the crimson of rosesupon my heart;and then fold over the hollowwhere all the pain was.


F. S. Flint

1917


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