Red is the glory of the rising sun
That lifts its face upon the frosty morn,
And red the setting sun at end of day.
Red is the blood which in the veins doth run,
And red the lips, and red the babe new-born,
Red are the berries on the holly spray.
Red is the glow of wine, the flush of fun,
The velvet rose, the poppies in the corn;
The light of danger on the broad highway,
Red is the heart of fire, the mouth of gun.
Undoubtedly there are more gentle hues,
And each of them has qualities unique.
But if for warm vitality I seek
Then crimson red or scarlet would I choose.
Weekly Times 22.7.60