Robert Burns Wilson
Poems (6)
- Ballad of the Faded FieldBroad bars of sunset-slanted gold
- It Is in Winter That We Dream of SpringFor all the barren bleakness and the cold,
- Such Is the Death the Soldier DiesHe falls,—the column speeds away;
- The Dead PlayerSure and exact,—the master’s quiet touch,
- The Sunrise of the PoorA darkened hut outlined against the sky,
- To a CrowBold, amiable, ebon outlaw, grave and wise!