Francis William Bourdillon(22 March 1852 - 13 January 1921 / Runcorn, Cheshire)
A Spring Evening
- by Francis William Bourdillon23
Across the Glory of the glowing skies, A veil is drawn of shadowed mists that rise From lavishness from God's late gift. the rain.
So, after farewell said, fond memories Of words and looks, now over, come again Across the glowing heart, a veil of pain.
- by Francis William Bourdillon22
Watchman, watchman, what of the night, What of the night to tell? The heavens are dark, and never a light But the far-off flicker of Hell. But the steed is in the stall, Unsleeping; And the warder on the wall, Watch-keeping; And the granary is stored, And ready gun and sword. In the name of the Lord, All's Well!
Watchman, watchman, what of the night, What of the night to tell? The wind blows fierce, and the foam flies white, And the waters moan and swell. But the foes to haven keep, Safe hiding; And our ships are on the deep, Sure riding; And the gallant hearts on board Keep ceaseless watch and ward. In the name of the Lord, All's Well!
Watchman, watchman, what of the night, What of the night to tell? There are widows weeping, and babes affright, And a ceaseless burial bell. But the hand that holds the gun Still shakes not; And the line drops one by one, Yet breaks not. Of the blood so nobly poured There shall surely be reward. In the name of the Lord, All's Well
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