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Title: War's Embers, and Other Verses

Author: Ivor Gurney

Release date: November 26, 2020 [eBook #63882]

Language: English

Credits: Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
available at The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WAR'S EMBERS, AND OTHER VERSES *** 







{4}  


BY THE SAME AUTHOR


SEVERN AND SOMME, 1917


{5}  


WAR’S EMBERS

AND OTHER VERSES


BY

IVOR GURNEY



London: SIDGWICK & JACKSON, LTD.

3 ADAM STREET, ADELPHI, W.C.2. 1919

{6}



First published in 1919



All rights reserved

{7}


TO


M. M. S.





O, if my wishes were my power,

You should be praised as were most fit,

Whose kindness cannot help but flower.



But since the fates have ordered it

Otherwise, then ere the hour

Of darkness deaden all my wit



I’ll write: how all my art was poor,

My mind too thought-packed to acquit

My debt ... And only, “Thanks once more.”

{8}






A few of the poems in this volume have already appeared in print: “The
Volunteer,” “In a Ward,” and “The Battalion is now on Rest” in The
Spectator; “The Immortal Hour” in The Westminster Gazette; “The Day
of Victory” in The Gloucester Journal; and “After Music” in The
R.C.M, Magazine. The author desires to thank the respective editors for
their kind permission to include these poems in the present collection.




{9}  


CONTENTS




  PAGE


DEDICATION: TO M. M. S.7


THE VOLUNTEER13


THE FARM15


OMENS18


ETERNAL TREASURE19


FIRE IN THE DUSK20


TURMUT-HOEING21


IN A WARD22


CAMPS23


GIRL’S SONG25


SOLACE OF MEN26


DAY-BOYS AND CHORISTERS27


AT RESERVE DEPOT29


TOASTS AND MEMORIES30


FROM THE WINDOW32


YPRES—MINSTERWORTH33


{10}
NEAR MIDSUMMER34


TOUSSAINTS36


THE STONE-BREAKER38


DRIFTING LEAVES40


CONTRASTS41


TO F. W. H.43


THE IMMORTAL HOUR44


TO HIS LOVE45


MIGRANTS46


OLD MARTINMAS EVE48


AFTER MUSIC49


THE TARGET50


TWIGWORTH VICARAGE51


{11}
HOSPITAL PICTURES:


1. LADIES OF CHARITY52


2. DUST53


3. “ABERDONIAN”55


4. COMPANION—NORTH-EAST DUGOUT56


5. THE MINER57


6. UPSTAIRS PIANO58


HIDDEN TALES61


RECOMPENSE62


THE TRYST63


THE PLAIN64


RUMOURS OF WARS65


“ON REST”67


DICKY70


THE DAY OF VICTORY71


PASSIONATE EARTH75


THE POPLAR76


DOWN COMMERCIAL ROAD (GLOUCESTER)77


FROM OMIECOURT79


LE COQ FRANÇAIS80


{12}
THE FISHERMAN OF NEWNHAM82


THE LOCK-KEEPER83


THE REVELLERS84


“ANNIE LAURIE”85


THE BATTALION IS NOW ON REST86


PHOTOGRAPHS87


THAT COUNTY89


INTERVAL90


DE PROFUNDIS91


THE TOWER93




{13}


WAR’S EMBERS


THE VOLUNTEER


(To A. L. B.)





I would test God’s purposes:

I will go up and see

What fate He’ll give, what destiny

His hand holds for me.



For God is very secret,

Slow-smiles, but does not say

A word that will foreshadow

Shape of the coming day.



Curious am I, curious ...

And since He will not tell

I’ll prove Him, go up against

The naked mouth of Hell.{14}



And what hereafter—Heaven?

Or Blighty? O if it were ...

Mere agony, mere pain the price

Of the returning there.



Or—nothing! Days in mud

And slush, then other days ...

Aie me! “Are they not all

The seas of God”; God’s Ways?

{15}




THE FARM


(To Mrs. Harvey and Those Others)





A creeper-covered house, an orchard near;

A farmyard with tall ricks upstanding clear

In golden sunlight of a late September.——

How little of a whole world to remember!

How slight a thing to keep a spirit free!

Within the house were books,

A piano, dear to me,

And round the house the rooks

Haunted each tall elm tree;

Each sunset crying, calling, clamouring aloud.



And friends lived there of whom the house was proud,

Sheltering with content from wind and storm,

Them loving gathered at the hearthside warm,

(O friendly, happy crowd!)

Caress of firelight gave them, touching hair

And cheeks and hands with sombre gleams of love,

(When day died out behind the lovely bare

Network of twigs, orchard and elms apart;

When rooks lay still in round dark nests above,

And Peace like cool dew comforted the heart.){16}

The house all strangers welcomed, but as strangers kept

For ever them apart

From its deep heart,

That hidden sanctuary of love close guarded;

Having too great a honey-heap uphoarded

Of children’s play, men’s work, lightly to let

Strangers therein;

Who knew its stubborn pride, and loved the more

The place from webbed slate roof to cellar floor—

Hens clucking, ducks, all casual farmyard din.

How empty the place seemed when Duty called

To harder service its three sons than tending

Brown fruitful good earth there! But all’s God’s sending.

Above the low barn where the oxen were stalled

The old house watched for weeks the road, to see

Nothing but common traffic; nothing its own.

It had grown to them so used, so long had known

Their presences; sheltered and shared sorrow and glee,

No wonder it felt desolate and left alone ...

That must remember, nothing at all forget.

My mind (how often!) turned and returned to it,

When in queer holes of chance, bedraggled, wet,

Lousy I lay; to think how by Severn-side

A house of steadfastness and quiet pride

Kept faith to friends (when hope of mine had died{17}

Almost to ash). And never twilight came

With mystery and peace and points of flame—

Save it must bring sounds of my Severn flowing

Steadily seawards, orange windows glowing

Bright in the dusk, and many a well-known name.

{18}




OMENS

(To E. H.)





Black rooks about the trees

Are circling slow;

Tall elms that can no ease

Nor comfort know,

Since that the Autumn wind

Batters them before, behind,

A bitter breeze unkind.



They call like tongues of dread

Prophesying woe,

Rooks on the sunset red,

Not heeding how

Their clamouring brings near

To a woman the old fear

For her far soldier dear.



That harsh and idle crying

Of mere annoy

Tells her how men are dying,

And how her boy

May lie, his racked thought turning

To the home fire on the hearth burning,

The last agony be learning.

{19}




ETERNAL TREASURE

(To H. N. H.)





Why think on Beauty as for ever lost

When fire and steel have worked their evil will,

Since Beauty lasts beyond decaying dust,

And in the after-dark is lovely still?

We are no phantoms; Body is but the case

Of an immortal Flame that does not perish,

Can the all-withering power of Time outface,

Since God Himself with love that flame does cherish.

Take comfort then, and dare the dangerous thing,

Death flouting with his impotence of wrath;

For Beauty arms us ’gainst his envious sting,

Safes us in any the most perilous path.

Come then, O brothers, greet what may befall

With Joy, for Beauty’s Maker ordereth all.

{20}




FIRE IN THE DUSK





When your white hands have lost their fairy power,

Like dimpling water flash and charm no more,

Quick pride of grace is still, closed your bright eyes—

I still must think, under those Northern skies,

Some influence shall remain of all that sweet;

Some flower of courage braving Easter sleet;

Colour to stir tears in tenderest skies;

Music of light. Your Autumn beeches shall

Set passion blazing in a heart until

Colour you gave be fashioned in formal line

On line; another’s beauty prove divine,

And all your wandering grace shall not be lost

To earth, being too precious, too great of cost—

Last wonder to awake the divine spark,

A lovely presence lighting Summer’s dark;

Though dust your frame of flesh, such dust as makes

Blue radiance of March in hidden brakes....

Pass from your body then, be what you will,

Whose light-foot walk outdanced the daffodil,

Since Time can but confirm you and fulfil

That hidden crescent power in you—Old Time,

Spoiler of pride, and towers, and breath, and rhyme,

Yet on the spirit impotent of power and will.

{21}




TURMUT-HOEING





I straightened my back from turmut-hoeing

And saw, with suddenly opened eyes,

Tall trees, a meadow ripe for mowing,

And azure June’s cloud-circled skies.



Below, the earth was beautiful

Of touch and colour, fair each weed,

But Heaven’s high beauty held me still,

Only of music had I need.



And the white-clad girl at the old farm,

Who smiled and looked across at me,

Dumb was held by that strong charm

Of cloud-ships sailing a foamless sea.

{22}




IN A WARD

(To J. W. H.)





O wind that tosses free

The children’s hair;

Scatters the blossom of

Apple and pear;

Blow in my heart, touch me,

Gladden me here.



You have seen so many things—

Blow in and tell

Tales of white sand and golden

’Gainst the sea swell.

Bring me fine meadow-thoughts,

Fresh orchard smell.



Here we must stare through glass

To see the sun—

Stare at flat ceilings white

Till day is done:

While you, sunshine, starshine,

May out and run.



Blow in and bring us all

Dear home-delight—

Green face of the Spring earth,

Blue of deep night.

Blot each of our faces

From the others’ sight.

{23}




CAMPS





Out of the line we rest in villages

Quiet indeed, where heal the spirit’s scars;

But even so, lapped deep in sunshine and ease,

We are haunted for ever by the shapes of wars.



Green in the sun they lie, secret, deserted,

Lovely against the blue the summits show,

Where once the bright steel sang, the red blood spurted,

And brave men cowed their terrors long ago.



By day their life was easy; but at night,

Even now, one hears strange rustlings in the bush;

And, straining tensely doubtful ear and sight,

The stealthy moving ere the sudden rush;



And flinches from the spear. War’s just-bright embers

That Earth still keeps and treasures for the pride

In sacrifice there shown; with love remembers

The beauty and quick strength of men that died.{24}



Who died as we may die, for Freedom, beauty

Of common living, calmly led in peace,

Yet took the flinty road and hard of duty,

Whose end was life abundant and increase.



But—when Heaven’s gate wide opening receives us

Victors and full of song, forgetting scars;

Shall we see to stir old memories, to grieve us,

Heaven’s never-yet-healed sores of Michael’s wars?

{25}




GIRL’S SONG





The tossing poplar in the wind

Shows underleaf of silver-white;

The roughness of the wind unkind

Torments her out of all delight.

But O that he were here

Whose blows and whose caresses alike were dear!



The great oak to the tearing blast

Stands steady with strong arms held wide,

So over him my anger passed,

When his rough usage hurt my pride.

But O that once again

I might arouse that passion, endure that pain!

{26}




SOLACE OF MEN





Sweet smelling, sweet to handle, fair of hue

Tobacco is. The soldier everywhere

Takes it as friend, its friendliness to share,

Whether in fragrant wreaths it mount faint blue

In dug-out low, or surreptitiously to

Parapet in rimy night, from hidden lair

Of sentry; staying hunger, stilling fear—

The old dreams of comfort bringing anew.

For from that incense grows the stuff of dreams,

And in those clouds a drowsing man may find

All that was ever sweet to his starved mind,

Heart long denied—dear friends, hills, horses, trees,

Slopes of brown ploughland, sunset’s fading gleams ...

The bane of care, the spur to memories.

{27}




DAY-BOYS AND CHORISTERS

(To the Boys of King’s School, Gloucester, 1900-1905)





Under the shade of the great Tower

Where pass the goodly and the wise,

Year in, year out, winter and summer,

With scufflings and excited cries,

Football rages, not told in pages

Of Fame whereof the wide world hears;

A battle of divided Empire—

The day-boys and the choristers.



Chorus

So here’s to the room where the dark beams cross over,

And here’s to the cupboard where hides the cane;

The paddock and fives-court, great chestnut, tall tower—

When Fritz stops his fooling we’ll see them again.



Golf balls, tennis balls, cricket and footballs,

Balls of all sizes and sorts were sent

Soaring by wall and arch and ivy

High, high over to banishment.

(Poor owner that loses!) And oh! but the bruises,

Scars, and red hacks to cover the brave

Shins of the boldest, when up and down playground

Victory surged, Victory, edged like a wave.{28}



Chorus

So here’s to the room where the dark beams cross over,

And here’s to the cupboard where hides the cane,

The paddock and fives-court, great chestnut, tall tower—

When Fritz stops his fooling we’ll see them again.



Little they knew, those boys, how in Flanders

And plains of France, in another day

A trial dreadful of nerve and sinew

For four long years should test alway

That playtime pluck, that yet should carry

Them through Hell’s during worst, and how

Europe should honour them, a whole world praise them,

Though Death tore their bodies and laid them low.



Chorus

So here’s to the room where the dark beams cross over,

And here’s to the cupboard where hides the cane;

The paddock and fives-court, great chestnut, tall tower—

When Fritz stops his fooling we’ll see them again.

{29}




AT RESERVE DEPOT





When Spring comes here with early innocency

Of pale high blue, they’ll put Revally back.

The passers-by carelessly amused will see

Breakfastless boys killing the patient sack.



And there will be manœuvres where the violet shows,

Hiding its dark fervour, guarding its flame,

Where I shall lie and stare while the mystery grows

Huge and more huge, till the Sergeant calls my name.

{30}




TOASTS AND MEMORIES

(To the Men of the 2/5 Gloucester Regiment)





When once I sat in estaminets

With trusty friends of mine,

We drank to folk in England

And pledged them well in wine,



While thoughts of Gloucester filled us—

Roads against windy skies

At sunset, Severn river,

Red inn-blinds, country cries.



That stung the heart with sorrow

And barbéd sweet delight

At Riez Bailleul, Laventie,

At Merville, many a night.



Now I am over Channel

I cannot help but think

Of friends who stifle longing

With friendly food and drink.



“Where’s Gurney now, I wonder,

That smoked a pipe all day;

Sometimes that talked like blazes,

Sometimes had naught to say?{31}”



And I, at home, must wonder

Where all my comrades are:

Those men whose Heart-of-Beauty

Was never stained by War.

{32}




FROM THE WINDOW





Tall poplars in the sun

Are quivering, and planes,

Forgetting the day gone,

Its cold un-August rains;

But with me still remains

The sight of beaten corn,

Crushed flowers and forlorn,

The summer’s wasted gains—

Yet pools in secret lanes

Abrim with heavenly blue

Life’s wonder mirror anew.

I must forget the pains

Of yesterday, and do

Brave things—bring loaded wains

The bare brown meadows through,

I must haste, I must out and run,

Wonder, till my heart drains

Joy’s cup, as in high champagnes

Of blue, where great clouds go on

With white sails free from stains

Full-stretched, on fleckless mains—

With captain’s joy of some proud galleon.

{33}




YPRES—MINSTERWORTH

(To F. W. H.)





Thick lie in Gloucester orchards now

Apples the Severn wind

With rough play tore from the tossing

Branches, and left behind

Leaves strewn on pastures, blown in hedges,

And by the roadway lined.



And I lie leagues on leagues afar

To think how that wind made

Great shoutings in the wide chimney,

A noise of cannonade—

Of how the proud elms by the signpost

The tempest’s will obeyed—



To think how in some German prison

A boy lies with whom

I might have taken joy full-hearted

Hearing the great boom

Of Autumn, watching the fire, talking

Of books in the half gloom.



O wind of Ypres and of Severn

Riot there also, and tell

Of comrades safe returned, home-keeping

Music and Autumn smell.

Comfort blow him and friendly greeting,

Hearten him, wish him well!

{34}




NEAR MIDSUMMER





Severn’s most fair to-day!

See what a tide of blue

She pours, and flecked alway

With gold, and what a crew

Of seagulls snowy white

Float round her to delight

Villagers, travellers.

A brown thick flood is hers

In winter when the rains

Wash down from Midland plains,

Halting wayfarers,

Low meadows flooding deep

With torrents from the steep

Mountains of Wales and small

Hillocks of no degree—

Streams jostling to the sea;

(Wrangling yet brotherly).

Blue June has altered all—

The river makes its fall

With murmurous still sound,

Past Pridings faëry ground,

And steep-down Newnham cliff....

O Boys in trenches, if

You could see what any may

(Escaping town for the day),

Strong Severn all aglow,

But tideless, running slow:{35}

Far Cotswolds all a-shimmer,

Blue Bredon leagues away—

Huge Malverns, farther, dimmer ...

Then you would feel the fire

Of the First Days inspire

You, when, despising all

Save England’s, honour’s call,

You dared the worst for her:

Faced all things without fear,

So she might stand alway

A free Mother of men;

High Queen as on this day.

There would flood through you again

The old faith, the old pride

Wherein our fathers died,

Whereby our land was builded and dignified.

{36}




TOUSSAINTS

(To J. W. H.)





Like softly clanging cymbals were

Plane-trees, poplars Autumn had

Arrayed in gloriously sad

Garments of beauty wind-astir;

It was the day of all the dead—



Toussaints. In sombre twos and threes

Between those coloured pillars went

Drab mourners. Full of presences

The air seemed ... ever and anon rent

By a slow bell’s solemnities.



The past year’s gloriously dead

Came, folk dear to that rich earth

Had given them sustenance and birth,

Breath and dreams and daily bread,

Took labour-sweat, returned them mirth.



Merville across the plain gleamed white,

The thronged still air gave never a sound,

Only, monotonous untoned

The bell of grief and lost delight.

Gay leaves slow fluttered to the ground.{37}



Sudden, that sense of peace and prayer

Like vapour faded. Round the bend

Swung lines of khaki without end....

Common was water, earth and air;

Death seemed a hard thing not to mend.

{38}




THE STONE-BREAKER

(To Dorothy)





The early dew was still untrodden,

Flawless it lay on flower and blade,

The last caress of night’s cold fragrance

A freshness in the young day made.



The velvet and the silver floor

Of the orchard-close was gold inlaid

With spears and streaks of early sunlight—

Such beauty makes men half afraid.



An old man at his heap of stones

Turned as I neared his clinking hammer,

Part of the earth he seemed, the trees,

The sky, the twelve-hour heat of summer.



“Fine marnen, zür!” And the earth spoke

From his mouth, as if the field dark red

On our right hand had greeted me

With words, that grew tall grain instead.

. . . . .

Oh, years ago, and near forgot!

Yet, as I walked the Flemish way,

An hour gone, England spoke to me

As clear of speech as on that day;{39}

Since peasants by the roadway working

Hailed us in tones uncouth, and one

Turned his face toward the marching column,

Fronted, took gladness from the sun.



And straight my mind was set on singing

For memory of a wrinkled face,

Orchards untrodden, far to travel,

Sweet to find in my own place.

{40}




DRIFTING LEAVES





The yellow willow leaves that float

Down Severn after Autumn rains

Take not of trouble any note—

Lost to the tree, its joys and pains.



But man that has a thousand ties

Of homage to his place of birth,

Nothing surrenders when he dies;

But yearns for ever to his earth—



Red ploughlands, trees that friended him,

Warm house of shelter, orchard peace.

In day’s last rosy influence dim

They flock to us without a cease;



Through fast-shut doors of olden houses

In soundless night the dear dead come,

Whose sorrow no live folk arouses,

Running for comfort hither home.



Though leaves on tide may idly range,

Grounding at last on some far mire—

Our memories can never change:

We are bond, we are ruled with Love’s desire.

{41}




CONTRASTS





If I were on the High Road

That runs to Malvern Town,

I should not need to read, to smoke,

My fear of death to drown;

Watching the clouds, skies, shadows dappling

The sweet land up and down.



But here the shells rush over,

We lie in evil holes,

We burrow into darkness

Like rabbits or like moles,

Men that have breathed the Severn air,

Men that have eyes and souls.



To-day the grass runs over

With ripples like the sea,

And men stand up and drink air

Easy and sweet and free;

But days like this are half a curse,

And Beauty troubles me.



The shadows under orchards there

Must be as clear and black—

At Minsterworth, at Framilode—

As though we had all come back;

Were out at making hay or tedding,

Piling the yellow stack.{42}



The gardens grow as freshly

On Cotswold’s green and white;

The grey-stone cottage colours

Are lovely to the sight,

As we were glad for dreams there,

Slept deep at home at night;



While here we die a dozen deaths

A score of times a day;

Trying to keep up heart and not

To give ourselves away.

“Two years longer,” “Peace to-morrow,”

“Some time yet,” they say!

{43}




TO F. W. H.





Ink black and lustreless may hold

A passion full of living fire:

Spring’s green the Autumn does enfold—

Things precious hide their bright in the mire.



And a whole county’s lovely pride

In one small book I found that made

More real the pictured Severn side

Than crash and shock of cannonade.



Beneath, more strong than that dread noise

The talk I heard of trees and men,

The still low-murmuring Earth-voice ...

God send us dreams in peace again.

{44}




THE IMMORTAL HOUR

(To Winnie)





I have forgotten where the pleasure lay

In resting idle in the summer weather,

Waiting on Beauty’s power my spirit to sway,

Since Life has taken me and flung me hither;



Here where gray day to day goes dully on,

So evenly, so grayly that the heart

Not notices nor cares that Time is gone

That might be jewelled bright and set apart.



And yet, for all this weight, there stirs in me

Such music of Joy when some perceivéd flower

Breaks irresistible this crust, this lethargy,

I burn and hunger for that immortal hour



When Peace shall bring me first to my own home,

To my own hills; I’ll climb and vision afar

Great cloud-fleets line on line up Severn come,

Where winds of Joy shall cleanse the stain of war.

{45}




TO HIS LOVE





He’s gone, and all our plans

Are useless indeed.

We’ll walk no more on Cotswold

Where the sheep feed

Quietly and take no heed.



His body that was so quick

Is not as you

Knew it, on Severn river

Under the blue

Driving our small boat through.



You would not know him now ...

But still he died

Nobly, so cover him over

With violets of pride

Purple from Severn side.



Cover him, cover him soon!

And with thick-set

Masses of memoried flowers—

Hide that red wet

Thing I must somehow forget.

{46}




MIGRANTS

(To Mrs. Taylor)





No colour yet appears

On trees still summer fine,

The hill has brown sheaves yet,

Bare earth is hard and set;

But autumn sends a sign

In this as in other years.



For birds that flew alone

And scattered sought their food

Gather in whirring bands;—

Starlings, about the lands

Spring cherished, summer made good,

Dark bird-clouds soon to be gone.



But above that windy sound

A deeper note of fear

All daylight without cease

Troubles the country peace;

War birds, high in the air,

Airplanes shadow the ground.



Seawards to Africa

Starlings with joy shall turn,

War birds to skies of strife,

Where Death is ever at Life;

High in mid-air may burn

Great things that trouble day.{47}



Their time is perilous,

Governed by Fate obscure;

But when our April comes

About the thatch-eaved homes,—

Cleaving sweet air, the sure

Starlings shall come to us.

{48}




OLD MARTINMAS EVE





The moon, one tree, one star,

Still meadows far,

Enwreathed and scarfed by phantom lines of white.

November’s night

Of all her nights, I thought, and turned to see

Again that moon and star-supporting tree.

If some most quiet tune had spoken then;

Some silver thread of sound; a core within

That sea-deep silentness, I had not known

Ever such joy in peace, but sound was none—

Nor should be till birds roused to find the dawn.

{49}




AFTER MUSIC





Why, I am on fire now, and tremulous

With sense of Beauty long denied; the first

Opening of floodgate to the glorious burst

Of Freedom from the Fate that limits us

To work in darkness pining for the light,

Thirsting for sweet untainted draughts of air,

Clouds sunset coloured, Music ... O Music’s bare

White heat of silver passion fiercely bright!

While sweating at the foul task, we can taste

No Joy that’s clean, no Love but something lets

It from its power; the wisest soul forgets

What’s beautiful, or delicate, or chaste.

Orpheus drew me (as once his bride) from Hell.

If wisely, her or me, the Gods can tell.

{50}




THE TARGET





I shot him, and it had to be

One of us! ’Twas him or me.

“Couldn’t be helped,” and none can blame

Me, for you would do the same.



My mother, she can’t sleep for fear

Of what might be a-happening here

To me. Perhaps it might be best

To die, and set her fears at rest.



For worst is worst, and worry’s done.

Perhaps he was the only son ...

Yet God keeps still, and does not say

A word of guidance any way.



Well, if they get me, first I’ll find

That boy, and tell him all my mind,

And see who felt the bullet worst,

And ask his pardon, if I durst.



All’s a tangle. Here’s my job.

A man might rave, or shout, or sob;

And God He takes no sort of heed.

This is a bloody mess indeed.

{51}




TWIGWORTH VICARAGE

(To A. H. C.)





Wakened by birds and sun, laughter of the wind,

A man might see all heart’s desire by raising

His pillowed sleepy head (still apt for lazing

And drowsy thought)—but then a green most kind

Waved welcome, and the rifted sky behind

Showed blue, whereon cloud-ships full-sailed went racing,

Man to delight and set his heart on praising

The Maker of all things, bountiful-hearted, kind.



May Hill, that half-revealéd tree-clad thing,

Maisemore’s delightful ridge, where Severn flowing

Nourished a wealth of lovely wild things blowing

Sweet as the air—Wainlodes and Ashleworth

To northward showed, a land where a great king

Might sit to receive homage from the whole earth.

{52}




HOSPITAL PICTURES


(To the Nurses of Ward 24, Bangour War Hospital, near Edinburgh)


1. LADIES OF CHARITY





With quiet tread, with softly smiling faces

The nurses move like music through the room;

While broken men (known, technically, as “cases”)

Watch them with eyes late deep in bitter gloom,

As though the Spring were come with all the Graces,

Or maiden April walked the ward in bloom.



Men that have grown forgetful of Joy’s power,

And old before their time, take courtesy

So sweet of girl or woman, as if some flower

Most strangely fair of Spring were suddenly

Thick in the woods at Winter’s blackest hour—

The gift unlocked for—lovely Charity.



Their anguish they forget, and, worse, the slow

Corruption of Joy’s springs; now breathe again

The free breath was theirs so long ago.

Courage renewed makes mock at the old pain.

Life’s loveliness brings tears, and a new glow.

Somehow their sacrifice seems not in vain.

{53}




2. DUST





Lying awake in the ward

Long hours as any must,

I wonder where the dust

Comes from, the Dust, the Dust!

That makes their life so hard,—

The nurses, who must rub

The soon appearing crust

Of green on the bright knob.



And little bits of fluff,

Dull white upon the floor,

Most soft, most curious stuff

That sidles to the door

When no one sees, and makes

Deep wrinkles and heart-breaks;

Light sighs and curses rough.



Oh! if a scientist

Of warm and kindly heart

Should live a while apart,

(Old Satan’s tail to twist,)

Poring on crucibles,

Vessels uncanny, till

He won at last to Hell’s

Grand secret of ill-will—

How Fluff comes and how Dust,{54}

Then nurses all would paint

Cheeks pretty for his sake;

Or stay in prayer awake

All night for that great Saint

Of Cleanliness, that bright

Devoted anchorite;

Brave champion and true knight.

{55}




3. “ABERDONIAN”





A soldier looked at me with blue hawk-eyes,

With kindly glances sorrow had made wise,

And talked till all I’d ever read in books

Melted to ashes in his burning looks;

And poets I’d despise and craft of pen,

If, while he told his coloured wonder-tales

Of Glasgow, Ypres, sea mist, spouting whales

(Alive past words or power of writing men),

My heart had not exulted in his brave

Air of the wild woodland and sea wave;

Or if, with each new sentence from his tongue,

My high-triumphing spirit had not sung

As in some April when the world was young.

{56}




4. COMPANION—NORTH-EAST DUGOUT





He talked of Africa,

That fat and easy man.

I’d but to say a word,

And straight the tales began.



And when I’d wish to read,

That man would not disclose

A thought of harm, but sleep;

Hard-breathing through his nose.



Then when I’d wish to hear

More tales of Africa,

’Twas but to wake him up,

And but a word to say



To press the button, and

Keep quiet; nothing more;

For tales of stretching veldt,

Kaffir and sullen Boer.



O what a lovely friend!

O quiet easy life!

I wonder if his sister

Would care to be my wife....

{57}




5. THE MINER





Indomitable energy controlled

By Fate to wayward ends and to half use,

He should have given his service to the Muse,

To most men shy, to him, her humble soldier,

Frank-hearted, generous, bold.



Yet though his fate be cross, he shall not tire

Nor seek another service than his own:

For selfless valour and the primal fire

Shine out from him, as once from great Ulysses,

That king without a throne.

{58}




6. UPSTAIRS PIANO





O dull confounded Thing,

You will not sing

Though I distress your keys

With thumps; in ecstasies

Of wrath, at some mis-said

Word of the deathless Dead!



Chopin or dear Mozart,

How must it break your heart

To hear this Beast refuse

The choice gifts of the Muse!

And turn your airy thought

With clumsiness to nought.



I am guilty too, for I

Have let the fine thing by;

And spoilt high graciousness

With a note more or less;

Whose wandering fingers know

Not surely where they go;

Whose mind most weak, most poor,

Your fire may not endure

That’s passionate, that’s pure.{59}



And yet, and yet, men pale

(Late under Passchendaele

Or some such blot on earth)

Feel once again the birth

Of joy in them, and know

That Beauty’s not a show

Of lovely things long past.



And stricken men at last

Take heart and glimpse the light,

Grow strong and comforted

With eyes that challenge night,

With proud-poised gallant head,

And new-born keen delight.



Beethoven, Schumann, Bach:

These men do greatly lack,

And you have greatly given.

The fervent blue of Heaven

They will see with purer eyes—

Suffering has made them wise;

Music shall make them sweet.



If they shall see the stars

More clearly after their wars,

That is a good wage.

Yours is a heritage{60}

Most noble and complete.

And if we, blind, have gone

Where a great glory shone,

Or deaf, where angels sang;

Forgive us, for you, too,

A little blind were, knew

Of weakness, once, the pang;

Of darkness, once, the fear.



And so, forgive this dear

Pig-hearted chest of strings,

And me, whose heart not sings

Nor triumphs as do yours

Within the Heavenly doors—

Walking the clear unhindered level floors.

{61}




HIDDEN TALES





The proud and sturdy horses

Gather their willing forces,

Unswerving make their courses

Over the brown

Earth that was mowing meadow

A month agone, where shadow

And light in the tall grasses

Quivered and was gone.



They spoil the nest of plover

And lark, turn up, uncover

The bones of many a lover

Unfamed in tales;

Arrows, old flints of hammers,

The rooks with hungry clamours

Hover around and settle

Seeking full meals.



Who knows what splendid story

Lies here, what hidden glory

Of brave defeat or victory

This earth might show.

None cares; the surging horses

Gather untiring forces

The keen-eyed farmer after

Guiding the plough.

{62}




RECOMPENSE

(To the Men of the 2/5 Gloucester Regiment)





I’d not have missed one single scrap of pain

That brought me to such friends, and them to me;

And precious is the smallest agony,

The greatest, willingly to bear again—

Cruel frost, night vigils, death so often ta’en

By Golgothas untold from Somme to Sea.

Duty’s a grey thing; Friendship valorously

Rides high above all Fortune without stain.



Their eyes were stars within the blackest night

Of Evil’s trial. Never mariner

Did trust so in the ever-fixéd star

As I in those. And so their laughter sounded—

Trumpets of Victory glittering in sunlight;

Though Hell’s power ringed them in, and night surrounded.

{63}




THE TRYST

(To W. M. C.)





In curtain of the hazel wood,

From sunset to the clear-of-star,

An hour or more I feared, but stood—

My lover’s road was far.



Until within the ferny brake

Stirred patter feet and silver talk

That set all horror wide awake—

I fear the fairy folk ...



That bind with chains and change a maid

From happy smiling to a thing

Better in ground unhallowed laid

Where holy bells not ring.



And whether late he came or soon

I know not, through a rush of air

Along the white road under the moon

I sped, till the golden square



Showed of the blind lamplighted; then,

My hand on heart, I slackened, stood ...

Though Robin be the man of men,

I’ll walk no more that wood.

{64}




THE PLAIN





The plain’s a waste of evil mire,

And dead of colour, sodden-grey,

The trees are ruined, crumbled the spire

That once made glad the innocent day.



The host of flowers are buried deep

With friends of mine who held them dear;

Poor shattered loveliness asleep,

Dreaming of April’s covering there.



Oh, if the Bringer of Spring does care

For Duty valorously done,

Then what sweet breath shall scent the air!

What colour-blaze outbrave the sun!

{65}




RUMOURS OF WARS

(To Mrs. Voynich)





On Sussex hills to-day

Women stand and hear

The guns at work alway,

Horribly, terribly clear.



The doors shake, on the wall

The kitchen vessels move,

The brave heart not at all

May soothe its tortured love,



Nor hide from truth, nor find

Comfort in lies. No prayer

May calm. All’s naught. The mind

Waits on the throbbing air.



The frighted day grows dark.

None dares to speak. The gloom

Makes bright and brighter the spark

Of fire in the still room.



A crazy door shakes free....

“Dear God!” They stand, they stare ...

A shape eyes cannot see

Troubles blank darkness there.{66}



She knows, and must go pray

Numb-hearted by the bed

That was his own alway ...

The throbbing hurts her head.

{67}




“ON REST”

(To the Men of the 2/5 Gloucester Regiment)





It’s a King’s life, a life fit for a King!

To lie safe sheltered in some old hay-loft

Night long, on golden straw, and warm and soft,

Unroused; to hear through dreams dawn’s thrushes sing

“Revally”—drowse again; then wake to find

The bright sun through the broken tiles thick-streaming.

“Revally” real: and there’s an end to dreaming.

“Up, Boys, and Out!” Then O what green, what still

Peace in the orchard, deep and sweet and kind,

Shattered abruptly—splashing water, shout

On shout of sport, and cookhouse vessels banging,

Dixie against dixie musically clanging.—

The farmer’s wife, searching for eggs, ’midst all

Dear farmhouse cries. A stroll: and then “Breakfast’s up.”

Porridge and bacon! Tea out of a real cup

(Borrowed). First day on Rest, a Festival

Of mirth, laughter in safety, a still air.

“No whizzbangs,” “crumps” to fear, nothing to mind,

Danger and the thick brown mud behind,

An end to wiring, digging, end to care.{68}

Now wonders begin, Sergeants with the crowd

Mix; Corporals, Lance-Corporals, little proud,

Authority forgotten, all goes well

In this our Commonwealth, with tales to tell,

Smokes to exchange, letters of price to read,

Letters of friends more sweet than daily bread.

The Sergeant-major sheathes his claws and lies

Smoking at length, content deep in his eyes.

Officers like brothers chaff and smile—

Salutes forgotten, etiquette the while,

Comrades and brothers all, one friendly band.

Now through the orchard (sun-dried of dewfall) in

And out the trees the noisy sports begin.

He that is proud of body runs, leaps, turns

Somersaults, hand-turns; the licensed jester flings

Javelins of blunt wit may bruise not pierce;

Ragtimes and any scrap of nonsense sings.

All’s equal now. It’s Rest, none cares, none escapes

The hurtless battering of those kindly japes.

Noon comes, the estaminets open welcome doors,

Men drift along the roads in three and fours,

Enter those cool-paven rooms, and sit

Waiting; many there are to serve, Madame

Forces her way with glasses, all ignores

The impatient clamour of that thirsty jam,

The outcries, catcalls, queries, doubtful wit,

Alike. Newspapers come, “Journal, m’sieur?”

“What’s the news?” “Anything fresh, boy?” “Tell us what’s new.{69}”

Dinner, perhaps a snooze, perhaps a stroll.

Tea, letters (most like), rations to divide

(Third of a loaf, half, if luck’s our way).

No work, no work, no work! A lovely day!

Down the main street men loiter side by side.

So day goes on blue-domed till the west’s afire

With the sun just sunken, though we cannot see,

Hidden in green, the fall of majesty.

Our hearts are lifted up, fierce with desire

But once again to see the ricks, the farms,

Blue roads, still trees of home in the rich glow;

Life’s pageant fading slower and more slow

Till Peace folds all things in with tender arms.

The last stroll in the orchard ends, the last

Candles are lit in bivvy and barn and cart,

Where comrades talking lie, comfort at heart,

Gladder for danger shared in the hard past,

The stars grow bright ’gainst Heaven’s still-deepening blue,

Lights in the orchard die. “I wonder how

Mother is keeping: she must be sleepy now

As we, yet may be wondering all night through.”

{70}




DICKY

(To his Memory)





They found him when the day

Was yet but gloom;

Six feet of scarréd clay

Was ample room

And wide enough domain for all desires

For him, whose glowing eyes

Made mock at lethargies,

Were not a moment still;—

Can Death, all slayer, kill

The fervent source of those exultant fires?

Nay, not so;

Somewhere that glow

And starry shine so clear astonishes yet

The wondering spirits as they come and go.

Eyes that nor they nor we shall ever forget.



OMIECOURT.





{71}  


THE DAY OF VICTORY

(To my City)





The dull dispiriting November weather

Hung like a blight on town and tower and tree,

Hardly was Beauty anywhere to see

Save—how fine rain (together

With spare last leaves of creepers once showed wet

As it were, with blood of some high-making passion,)

Drifted slow and slow....

But steadily aglow

The City was, beneath its grey, and set

Strong-mooded above the day’s inclemency.



Flaunting from houses, over the rejoicing crowd,

Flags waved; that told how nation against nation

Should war no more, their wounds tending awhile:—

The sullen vanquished; Victors with heads bowed.

And still the bells from the square towers pealed Victory,

The whole time cried Victory, Victory flew

Banners invisible argent; Music intangible

A glory of spirit wandered the wide air through.{72}

All knew it, nothing mean of fire or common

Ran in men’s minds; none so poor but knew

Some touch of sacred wonder, noble wonder,—

Thought’s surface moving under;

Life’s texture coarse transfiguring through and through.



Joking, friendly-quarrelling, holiday-making,

Eddying hither, thither, without stay

That concourse went, squibs, crackers, squibbing, cracking—

Laughter gay

All common-jovial noises sounded, bugles triumphing masterful, strident, clear above all,

Hail fellow, cat-call ...

Yet one discerned

A new spirit learnt of pain, some great

Acceptance out of hard endurance learned

And truly; wrested bare of hand from Fate.

The soldier from his body slips the pack,

Staggers, relaxes, crouches, then lies back,

Glad for the end of torment. Here was more.



A sense of consummation undeserved,

Desire fulfilled beyond dreams, completion

Humbly accepted,—a proud and grateful nation

Took the reward of purpose had not swerved,{73}

But steadily before

Saw out, with equal mind, through alternation

Of hope and doubt—a four-year purge of fire

Changing with sore

Travail the flawed spirit, cleansing desire.



And glad was I:

Glad—who had seen

By Somme and Ancre too many comrades lie.

It was as if the Woman’s spirit moved

That multitude, never of Man that pays

So lightly for the treasure of his days—

Of some woman that too greatly had beloved

Yet, willing, half her care of life foregone;

Best half of being losing with her son,

Beloved, beautiful, born-of-agony One....



The dull skies wept still. Drooped suddenly

Flags all. No triumph there.

Belgium, the Stars and Stripes, Gaul, Italy,

Britain, assured Mistress, Queen of the Sea,

Forlorn colours showed; rags glory-bare.

Night came, starless, to blur all things over

That strange assort of Life;

Sister, and lover,

Brother, child, wife,{74}

Parent—each with his thought, careless or passioned,

Of those who gave their frames of flesh to cover

From spoil their land and folk, desperately fashioned

Fate stubborn to their will.



Rain fell, miserably, miserably, and still

The strange crowd clamoured till late, eddied, clamoured,

Mixed, mused, drifted.... The Day of Victory.

{75}




PASSIONATE EARTH

(To J. W. H.)





Where the new-turned ploughland runs to clean

Edges of sudden grass-land, lovely, green—

Music, music clings, music exhales,

And inmost fragrance of a thousand tales.

There the heart lifts, the soul takes flight to sing

High at Heaven-gate; but loth for entering

Lest there such brown and green it never find;

Nor feel the sting

Of such a beauty left so far behind.

{76}




THE POPLAR

(To Micky)





A tall slim poplar

That dances in

A hidden corner

Of the old garden,

What is it in you

Makes communion

With this wind of Autumn,

The clouds, the sun?



You must be lonely

Amidst round trees

With their matron-figures

And stubborn knees,

Casting hard glances

Of keen despite

On the lone girl that dances

Silvery white.



But you are dearer

To sky and earth

Than lime-trees, plane-trees

Of meaner birth.

Your sweet shy beauty

Dearer to us

Than tree-folk, worthy,

Censorious.

{77}




DOWN COMMERCIAL ROAD (GLOUCESTER)

(To my Mother)





When I was small and packed with tales of desert islands far

My mother took me walking in a grey ugly street,

But there the sea-wind met us with a jolly smell of tar,

A sailorman went past to town with slow rolling gait;

And Gloucester she’s famous in story.



The trees and shining sky of June were good enough to see,

Better than books or any tales the sailormen might tell—

But tops’le spars against the blue made fairyland for me;

The snorting tug made surges like the huge Atlantic swell.

And Gloucester she’s famous in story.



Then thought I, how much better to sail the open seas

Than sit in school at spelling-books or sums of grocers’ wares.{78}

And I’d have knelt for pity at any captain’s knees

To go see the banyan tree or white Arctic bears.

And Gloucester she’s famous in story.



O Gloucester men about the world that dare the seas to-day,

Remember little boys at school a-studying their best

To hide somehow from Mother, and get clear away

To where the flag of England flies prouder than the rest.

And Gloucester she’s famous in story.

{79}




FROM OMIECOURT





O small dear things for which we fight—

Red roofs, ricks crowned with early gold,

Orchards that hedges thick enfold—

O visit us in dreams to-night!



Who watch the stars through broken walls

And ragged roofs, that you may be

Still kept our own and proudly free

While Severn from the Welsh height falls.

{80}




LE COQ FRANÇAIS

(To Ronald)





After the biting cold of the outer night

It seemed—(“Le Coq Français”)—a palace of light,

And its low roof black-timbered was most fine

After the iron and sandbags of the line.

Easy it was to be happy there! Madame,

Frying a savoury mess of eggs and ham,

Talking the while: of the War, of the crops, her son

Who should see to them, and would, when the War was done.

Of battalions who had passed there, happy as we

To find a house so clean, such courtesy

Simple, sincere; after vigils of frost

The place seemed the seventh Heaven of comfort; lost

In miraculous strange peace and warmth we’d sit

Till the prowling police hunted us out of it—

Away from café noir, café au lait, vin blanc,

Vin rouge, citron, all that does belong

To the kindly shelter of old estaminets,

Nooked and cornered, with mirth of firelight ablaze—

Herded us into billets; where candles must show

Little enough comfort after the steady glow{81}

Of that wonderful fireshine. We must huddle us close

In blankets, hiding all but the crimson nose,

To think awhile of home, if the frost would let

Thought flow at all; then sleep, sleep to forget

All but home and old rambles, lovely days

Of maiden April, glamorous September haze,

All darling things of life, the sweet of desire—

Castles of Spain in the deep heart of the fire.

{82}




THE FISHERMAN OF NEWNHAM

(To my Father)





When I was a boy at Newnham,

For every tide that ran

Swift on its way to Bollo,

I wished I were a man

To sail out and discover

Where such a tide began.



But when my strength came on me

’Tis I must earn my bread:

My Father set me fishing

By Frampton Hock, instead

Of wandering to the ocean—

Wherever Severn led.



And now I’ve come to manhood,

Too many cares have I

To think of gallivanting

(A wife and child forbye).

So I must wonder ever

Until time comes to die.



Then I shall question Peter

Upon the heavenly floor,

What makes the tide in rivers—

How comes the Severn bore,

And all things he will tell me

I never knew before.

{83}




THE LOCK-KEEPER

(To the Memory of Edward Thomas)





A tall lean man he was, proud of his gun,

Of his garden, and small fruit trees every one

Knowing all weather signs, the flight of birds,

Farther than I could hear the falling thirds

Of the first cuckoo. Able at digging, he

Smoked his pipe ever, furiously, contentedly.

Full of old country tales his memory was;

Yarns of both sea and land, full of wise saws

In rough fine speech; sayings his father had,

That worked a twelve-hour day when but a lad.

Handy with timber, nothing came amiss

To his quick skill; and all the mysteries

Of sail-making, net-making, boat-building were his.

That dark face lit with bright bird-eyes, his stride

Manner most friendly courteous, stubborn pride,

I shall not forget, not yet his patience

With me, unapt, though many a far league hence

I’ll travel for many a year, nor ever find

A winter-night companion more to my mind,

Nor one more wise in ways of Severn river,

Though her villages I search for ever and ever.

{84}




THE REVELLERS





I saw a silver-bright shield hang

Entangled in the topmost boughs

Of an old elm-tree, and a house

Dreaming; the while a small stream sang

A tune of broken silver by,

And laughed and wondered at the sky.



A thousand thousand silver lamps

Dared the bright moon of stars. O! who,

Wandering that silver quiet through,

Might heed the river-mists, dew-damps?

All Heaven exulted, but Earth lay

Breathless and tranced in peace alway.



From the orange-windowed tavern near

A song some ancient lover had—

When stars and longing made him mad—

Fashioned from wonder at his dear,

Rang out. Yet none there moves a limb

To see such stars as passioned him.



The loth moon left the twigs and gazed

Full-fronted at the road, the stream,

That all but tiniest tunes adream

Stilled, held breath at last amazed.

The farmers from their revel came;

But no stars saw, and felt no flame.

{85}




“ANNIE LAURIE”

(To H. N. H.)





The high barn’s lit by many a guttering flare

Of flickering candle, dangerous—(hence forbidden)—

To warm soft straw, whereby the cold floor’s hidden,

On which we soon shall rest without a care.

War is forgotten. Gossip fills the air

Of home, and laughter sounds beyond the midden

Under the stars, where Youth makes Joy unchidden

Of gods or men, and mocks at sorrow there.

But hark! what sudden pure untainted passion

Seizes us now, and stills the garrulous?

A song of old immortal dedication

To Beauty’s service and one woman’s heart.

No tears we show, no sign of flame in us

This hour of stars and music set apart.

{86}




THE BATTALION IS NOW ON REST

(To “La Comtesse”)





Walking the village street, to watch the stars and find

Some peace like the old peace, some soothe for soul and mind;

The noise of laughter strikes me as I move on my way

Towards England—Westward—and the last glow of day.



And here is the end of houses. I turn on my heel,

And stay where those voices a moment made me feel

As I were on Cotswold, with nothing else to do

Than stare at the old houses, to taste the night-dew;



To answer friendly greetings from rough voices kind....

Oh, one may try for ever to be calm and resigned,

A red blind at evening sets the poor heart on fire—

Or a child’s face, a sunset—with the old hot desire.

{87}




PHOTOGRAPHS


(To Two Scots Lads)





Lying in dug-outs, joking idly, wearily;

Watching the candle guttering in the draught;

Hearing the great shells go high over us, eerily

Singing; how often have I turned over, and laughed



With pity and pride, photographs of all colours,

All sizes, subjects: khaki brothers in France;

Or mothers’ faces worn with countless dolours;

Or girls whose eyes were challenging and must dance,



Though in a picture only, a common cheap

Ill-taken card; and children—frozen, some

(Babies) waiting on Dicky-bird to peep

Out of the handkerchief that is his home



(But he’s so shy!). And some with bright looks, calling

Delight across the miles of land and sea,

That not the dread of barrage suddenly falling

Could quite blot out—not mud nor lethargy.{88}



Smiles and triumphant careless laughter. O

The pain of them, wide Earth’s most sacred things!

Lying in dugouts, hearing the great shells slow

Sailing mile-high, the heart mounts higher and sings.



But once—O why did he keep that bitter token

Of a dead Love?—that boy, who, suddenly moved,

Showed me, his eyes wet, his low talk broken,

A girl who better had not been beloved.

{89}




THAT COUNTY





Go up, go up your ways of varying love,

Take each his darling path wherever lie

The central fires of secret memory;

Whether Helvellyn tower the lakes above;

Or black Plinlimmon time and tempest prove;

Or any English heights of bravery.

I will go climb my little hills to see

Severn, and Malverns, May Hill’s tiny grove.



No Everest is here, no peaks of power

Astonish men. But on the winding ways

White in the frost-time, blinding in full June blaze,

A man may take all quiet heart’s delight—

Village and quarry, taverns and many a tower

That saw Armada beacons set alight.

{90}




INTERVAL





To straight the back, how good; to see the slow

Dispersed cloud-flocks of Heaven wandering blind

Without a shepherd, feel caress the kind

Sweet August air, soft drifting to and fro

Meadow and arable.—Leaning on my hoe

I searched for any beauty eyes might find.

The tossing wood showed silver in the wind;

Green hills drowsed wakeful in the golden glow.



Yet all the air was loud with mutterings,

Rumours of trouble strange in that rich peace,

Where War’s dread birds must practise without cease

All that the stoutest pilot-heart might dare.

Death over dreaming life managed his wings,

Droning dull song in the sun-satiate air.

{91}




DE PROFUNDIS





If only this fear would leave me I could dream of Crickley Hill

And a hundred thousand thoughts of home would visit my heart in sleep;

But here the peace is shattered all day by the devil’s will,

And the guns bark night-long to spoil the velvet silence deep.



O who could think that once we drank in quiet inns and cool

And saw brown oxen trooping the dry sands to slake

Their thirst at the river flowing, or plunged in a silver pool

To shake the sleepy drowse off before well awake?



We are stale here, we are covered body and soul and mind

With mire of the trenches, close clinging and foul.

We have left our old inheritance, our Paradise behind,

And clarity is lost to us and cleanness of soul.{92}



O blow here, you dusk-airs and breaths of half-light,

And comfort despairs of your darlings that long

Night and day for sound of your bells, or a sight

Of your tree-bordered lanes, land of blossom and song.



Autumn will be here soon, but the road of coloured leaves

Is not for us, the up and down highway where go

Earth’s pilgrims to wonder where Malvern upheaves

That blue-emerald splendour under great clouds of snow.



Some day we’ll fill in trenches, level the land and turn

Once more joyful faces to the country where trees

Bear thickly for good drink, where strong sunsets burn

Huge bonfires of glory—O God, send us peace!



Hard it is for men of moors or fens to endure

Exile and hardship, or the Northland grey-drear;

But we of the rich plain of sweet airs and pure,

Oh! Death would take so much from us, how should we not fear?

{93}




THE TOWER

(To M. H.)





On the old road of Roman, on the road

Of chivalry and pride—the path to Wales

Famed in the chronicles and full of tales—

Westward I went, songs in my mouth, and strode

Free-bodied, light of heart,

Past many a heaped waggon with golden load,

And rumbling carrier’s cart.

When, near the bridge where snorting trains go under

With noise of thunder,

I turned and saw

A tower stand, like an immortal law—



Permanent, past the reach of Time and Change,

Yet fair and fresh as any flower wild blown;

As delicate, as fair

As any highest tiny cloudlet sown

Faint in the upper air.

Fragile yet strong, a music that vision seemed.

Though all the land was fair, let the eye range

Whither it will

On plain or hill,

It must return where white the tower gleamed

Wonderful, irresistible, bubble-bright

In the morning light.{94}



And then I knew, I knew why men must choose

Rather the dangerous path of arms than let

Beauty be broken

That is God’s token,

The sign of Him; why hearts of courage forget

Aught but the need supreme

To follow honour and the perilous thing:

Scorning Death’s sting;

Knowing Man’s faith not founded on a dream.






Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.