Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
A gentleman of wit and charm,
A kindly heart, a cleanly mind,
One who was quick with hand or purse,
To lift the burden of his kind.
A brain well balanced and mature,
A soul that shrank from all things base,
So rode he forth that winter day,
Complete in every mortal grace.
And then the blunder of a horse,
The crash upon the frozen clods,
And Death? Ah! no such dignity,
But Life, all twisted and at odds!
At odds in body and in soul,
Degraded to some brutish state,
A being loathsome and malign,
Debased, obscene, degenerate.
Pathology? The case is clear,
The diagnosis is exact;
A bone depressed, a haemorrhage,
The pressure on a nervous tract.
Theology? Ah, there’s the rub!
Since brain and soul together fade,
Then when the brain is dead enough!
Lord help us, for we need Thine aid!
I. — Songs of the Road Narrative Verses And Songs
A Hymn Of Empire Poem
Sir Nigel’s Song Poem
The Arab Steed Poem
A Post-Impressionist Poem
Empire Builders Poem
The Groom’s Encore Poem
The Bay Horse Poem
The Outcasts Poem
The End Poem
The Wanderer Poem
Bendy’s Sermon Poem
III — Songs of the Road Miscellaneous Verses
A Woman’s Love Poem
By The North Sea Poem
December’s Snow Poem
Shakespeare’s Expostulation Poem
The Empire Poem
A Voyage Poem
The Orphanage Poem
Sexagenarius Loquitur Poem
Night Voices Poem
The Message Poem
The Echo Poem
Advice To A Young Author Poem
A Lilt Of The Road Poem