Poem by Alfred Bruce Douglas

Vae Victis!

    Here in this isle
The summer still lingers,
And Autumn's brown fingers
    So busy the while
    With the leaves in the north;
    Are scarcely put forth
In this land where the sun still glows like an ember,.
    In mid-November.

    In England it's cold,
And the yellow and red
Of October have fled ;
    And the sun is wet gold
    Like an emperor weeping,
    When Death goes a-reaping
All through his empire, merciless comer
    The dead things of summer.

    The sky has cried so
That the earth is all sodden,
With dead leaves in-trodden,
    And the trees to and fro
    Wave their arms in the air
    In despair, in despair :
They are thinking of all the hot days that are over,
    And the cows in the clover.

    Here the roses are out,
And the sun at high noon
Makes the birds faint and swoon.
    But the cricket's about
    With his song, and the hum
    Of the bees as they come
To feast at the honey-board laden and groaning,
    Makes musical droning.

    But vainly, alas !
Do I hide in the south,
Kiss close with my mouth
    Red flowers, green grass,
    For Autumn has found me
    And thrown her arms around me.
She has breathed on my lips and I wander apart,
    Dead leaves in my heart.

1. Perkin Warbeck
2. The Green River
3. The Ballad of Saint Vitus
4. A Prayer
5. Jonquil and Fleur-de-lys

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