Excerpt from St. Augustine's Holiday: And Other Poems Suspected all my life of poetry, I come at last and make confession here. Late, late, my son I in the autumn of my year, I gather up my sheaves that scatter'd lie, Some faint far light of immortality Falling upon my field, and the severe Relentless winds whistling into mine ear Gather thou up thy sheaves before thou die. Sheaves at that word I think of Israel's meadow And valleys thick with corn.1' And on my lid A proud tear trembles, as on his there did. These are my sheaves that rest, each on its shadow And all, along their little golden line, Make their obeisance, O my son, to thine. About the Publisher Forgotten Books publishes hundreds of thousands of rare and classic books. Find more at www.

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