Edmund Charles Blunden

At Quincy's moat the squandering village ends,As close as any trueloves in the spring.

— Edmund Charles Blunden

Cricket to us, like you, was more than play,It was a worship in the summer sun.

— Edmund Charles Blunden

To-day's house makes to-morrow’s road;Fame's final bastion.

— Edmund Charles Blunden

Tired with dull grief, grown old before my day,Dead as the men I loved, wait while life drags.

— Edmund Charles Blunden

Its wounded length from those sad streets of warAnd the charred stub outspeaks the living tree.

— Edmund Charles Blunden