By MICHAEL CAINES
Oh! Death will find me, long before I tire
Of watching you; and swing me suddenly
Into the shade and loneliness and mire
Of the last land . . . .
I said I splendidly loved you; it’s not true.
Such long swift tides stir not a land-locked sea. . . .
Unkempt about those hedges blows
An English unofficial rose;
And there the unregulated sun
Slopes down to rest when day is done . . . .