Apples reddening on the trees—
Oh, good Lord, I’m seeing double;
That’s not gas that made me sneeze.”
Here’s a Q.M. warehouse, locked and still,
At the end of a village street;
The sunset red on the woods ahead,
And a sentry on his beat.
The hour chimes from the ancient spire,
A child laughs out below,
And the sentry’s eyes, on the western skies,