Arthur Conan Doyle

The Rattle of the Bicycles

The rattle of the bicycles
The cosy village tea,
The walking up the long hills
Which seemed too short to me,
The journey in the murder stone
The chat beside the way
The ride all round a moorland
Upon a windy day
Pink ribbons in a lady’s hat,
A roadside violet,
The little things in lips are oft 
The hardest to forget.