Frances Cornford

"A young Apollo, golden-haired, Stands dreaming on the verge of strife, Magnificently unprepared For the long littleness of life."

"O why do you walk through the fields in gloves, Missing so much and so much? O fat white woman whom nobody loves, Why do you walk through the fields in gloves, When the grass is soft as the breast of doves And shivering-sweet to the touch? O why do you walk through the fields in gloves, Missing so much and so much?"

"Whoso maintains that I am humbled now (Who wait the Awful Day) is still a liar; I hope to meet my Maker brow to brow And find my own the higher."