Poems by Thomas William Hodgson Crosland
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What tale is this which stirs a world of knaves
At five o'clock they ring a tinkly bell;
Lieutenant Keen was "great," and yet
A for Arab.
I
CHIDDEN still murmurs,
You who are still and white
We were all sore and broken and keen on sleep,
They have him in a cage
Out of the cloud that covers me
Lo, the Beast that rioteth,
A minx of seventeen, with rather fine
Upon the tinkling splintery battlements