Avril Anderson

Drop English earth on him beneath
Do our sons; and their sons bequeath
His glories and our pride and grief
At Bladon.

For Lionheart that lies below
That feared not toil nor tears nor foe.
Let the oak stand tho’ tempests blow
At Bladon.

So Churchill sleeps, yet surely wakes
Old Warrior where the morning breaks
On sunlit uplands. But the heart aches
At Bladon.

E E Cummings

be of love(a little)
More careful
Than of everything
guard her perhaps only
A trifle less
(merely beyond how very)
closely than
Nothing,remember love by
frequent
anguish(imagine
Her least never with most
memory)give entirely each
Forever its freedom
(Dare until a flower,
understanding sizelessly
sunlight
Open what thousandth why
and
discover laughing)