First World War Poetry Digital Archive



We all love more the Passed and the To Be Than actual time, and far things more than near. Perverse we all are somehow; calling dear Rather the rare than fair. But as for me, How singular and sad that I should see More loveliness in Grecian marbles clear Than modern flesh, to beauty insincere; Less glory in a man than any tree.

I fall in love with children, elfin fair; Portraits; dark ladies in dark tales antique; Or instantaneous faces passed in streets. I know the dim old gods that never were, Better than men. One friend I love unique, But now, thou canst not dream I love thee, Keats!

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