and then shivers
     (A goose walking over her tomb)
     Gazes out at the rain running rivers
     And says to the group in the room: 
     “Just supposing the ‘God of Surprises’
     Appeared in the glow of a coal,
     With a promise before he demises
     To take us away from this hole
     And do just whatever we long to do. 
     Tell me your perfect day.” 
     Said one, “Why, to fly to an island
     Far away in a deep blue lagoon;
     One would never be tired in my land
     Nor ever get up too soon.” 
     “Every time,” cried the girl darning stockings,
     “We’d surf-ride and bathe in the sea,
     We’d wear nothing but little blue smockings
     And eat mangoes and crabs for our tea.” 
     “Oh no!” said a third, “that’s a rotten
     Idea of a perfect day;
     I long to see mountains forgotten,
     Once more hear the bells of a sleigh. 
     I’d give all I have in hard money
     For one day of ski-ing again,
     And to see those white mountains all sunny
     Would pretty well drive me insane.” 
     Then a girl, as she flicked cigarette ash
     Most carelessly on to the floor,
     Had a feeling just then that her pet “pash”
     Would be a nice car at the door,
     To motor all day without fagging—­
     Not to drive nor to start up the thing. 
     Oh! the joy to see someone else dragging
     A tow-rope or greasing a spring! 
     Then a fifth murmured, “What about fishing? 
     Fern and heather right up to your knees
     And a big salmon rushing and swishing
     ’Mid the smell of the red rowan trees.” 
     So the train of opinions drifted
     And thicker the atmosphere grew,
     Till piercing the voices uplifted
     Rang a sound I was sure I once knew. 
     A sound that set all my nerves singing
     And ran down the length of my spine,
     A great pack of hounds as they’re flinging
     Themselves on a new red-hot line! 
     A bit of God’s country is stretching
     As far as the hawk’s eye can see,
     The bushes are leafless, like etching,
     As all good dream fences should be. 
     There isn’t a bitter wind blowing
     But a soft little southerly breeze,
     And instead of the grey channel flowing
     A covert of scrub and young trees. 
     The field of course is just dozens
     Of people I want to meet so—­
     Old friends, to say nothing of cousins
     Who’ve been killed in the war months ago. 
     Three F.A.N.Y.s are riding like fairies
     Having drifted right into my dreams,
     And they’re riding their favourite “hairies”
     That have been dead for years, so it seems. 
     A ditch that I’ve funked with precision
     For seasons, and passed by in fear,
     I now leap with a perfect decision
     That never has marked my career.