Poem by Lesbia Harford

White Sunshine

The sun's my fire.
Golden, from a magnificence of blue,
Should be its hue.
But woolly clouds,
Like boarding-house old ladies, come and sit
In front of it.
White sunshine, then,
That has the frosty glimmer of white hair,
Freezes the air.
They must forget,
So self-absorbed are they, so very old,
That I'll be cold.

1. I can't feel the sunshine
2. You, whom the grave cannot bind
3. He had served eighty masters. They'd have said
4. I have golden shoes
5. O little year, cram full of duty

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