At the cross-roads I haltAnd stand stock-still....The linked and flickering constellations climbSlowly the spread black heaven's immensity.The wind wanders like a thought at fault.Within the close-shuttered cottage nighI hear—while its fearful, ag'd master sleeps like the dead—A slow clock chimeWith solemn thrillThe most sombre hour of time,And see stand in the cottage's garden chillThe two white crosses, one at each grave's head....O France, France, France! I loved you, love you still;But, Oh! why took you not my life instead?
At the cross-roads I haltAnd stand stock-still....The linked and flickering constellations climbSlowly the spread black heaven's immensity.
The wind wanders like a thought at fault.
Within the close-shuttered cottage nighI hear—while its fearful, ag'd master sleeps like the dead—A slow clock chimeWith solemn thrillThe most sombre hour of time,And see stand in the cottage's garden chillThe two white crosses, one at each grave's head....
O France, France, France! I loved you, love you still;But, Oh! why took you not my life instead?
Now that I am ta'en away,And may not see another day,What is it to my eye appears?What sound rings in my stricken ears?Not even the voice of any friendOr eyes beloved-world-without-end,But scenes and sounds of the countrysideIn far England across the tide:An upland field when Spring's begun,Mellow beneath the evening sun....A circle of loose and lichened wallOver which seven red pines fall....An orchard of wizen blossoming treesWherein the nesting chaffinchesBegin again the self-same songAll the late April day-time long....Paths that lead a shelving courseBetween the chalk scarp and the gorseBy English downs; and, O! too wellI hear the hidden, clanking bellOf wandering sheep.... I see the brownTwilight of the huge empty down....Soon blotted out! for now a laneGlitters with warmth of May-time rain,And on a shooting briar I seeA yellow bird who sings to me.O yellow-hammer, once I heardThy yaffle when no other birdCould to my sunk heart comfort bring;But now I would not have thee sing,So sharp thy note is with the painOf England I may not see again!Yet sing thy song: there answerethDeep in me a voice which saith:"The gorse upon the twilit down,The English loam so sunset brown,The bowed pines and the sheep-bells' clamour,The wet, lit lane and the yellow-hammer,The orchard and the chaffinch song,Only to the Brave belong.And he shall lose their joy for ayeIf their price he cannot pay,Who shall find them dearer farEnriched by blood after long War."
Now that I am ta'en away,And may not see another day,What is it to my eye appears?What sound rings in my stricken ears?Not even the voice of any friendOr eyes beloved-world-without-end,But scenes and sounds of the countrysideIn far England across the tide:An upland field when Spring's begun,Mellow beneath the evening sun....A circle of loose and lichened wallOver which seven red pines fall....An orchard of wizen blossoming treesWherein the nesting chaffinchesBegin again the self-same songAll the late April day-time long....Paths that lead a shelving courseBetween the chalk scarp and the gorseBy English downs; and, O! too wellI hear the hidden, clanking bellOf wandering sheep.... I see the brownTwilight of the huge empty down....Soon blotted out! for now a laneGlitters with warmth of May-time rain,And on a shooting briar I seeA yellow bird who sings to me.
O yellow-hammer, once I heardThy yaffle when no other birdCould to my sunk heart comfort bring;But now I would not have thee sing,So sharp thy note is with the painOf England I may not see again!Yet sing thy song: there answerethDeep in me a voice which saith:"The gorse upon the twilit down,The English loam so sunset brown,The bowed pines and the sheep-bells' clamour,The wet, lit lane and the yellow-hammer,The orchard and the chaffinch song,Only to the Brave belong.And he shall lose their joy for ayeIf their price he cannot pay,Who shall find them dearer farEnriched by blood after long War."
In the raftered barn we lie,Sprawl, scrawl postcards, laugh and speak—Just mere men a trifle weary,Worn in heart, a trifle weak:Because alwayAt close of dayThought steals to England far away...."Alf!" "O ay.""Gi' us a tune, mate." "Well, wot say?""Swipe 'The Policeman's 'Oliday'....""Tiddle-iddle-um-tum,Tum-tum."Sprawling on my aching back,Think I nought; but I am glad—Dear, rare lads of pick and pack!Aie me too! I'm sad.... I'm sad:Some must die(Maybe I):O pray it take them suddenly!"Bill!" "Wot ho!""Concertina: let it go—'If you were the Only Girl.'" "Cheero!""If you were the Only Girl."Damn. 'Abide with Me....' Not now!—Well ... if you must: just your way.It racks me till the tears nigh flow.The tune see-saws. I turn, I prayBehind my hand,Shaken, unmanned,In groans that God may understand:Miracle!"Let, let them all survive this hell."Hear 'Trumpeter, what are you sounding?' swell.(My God! I guess indeed too well:The broken heart, eyes front, proud knell!)Grant but mine sound with their farewell."It's the Last Post I'm sounding."
In the raftered barn we lie,Sprawl, scrawl postcards, laugh and speak—Just mere men a trifle weary,Worn in heart, a trifle weak:Because alwayAt close of dayThought steals to England far away...."Alf!" "O ay.""Gi' us a tune, mate." "Well, wot say?""Swipe 'The Policeman's 'Oliday'....""Tiddle-iddle-um-tum,Tum-tum."
Sprawling on my aching back,Think I nought; but I am glad—Dear, rare lads of pick and pack!Aie me too! I'm sad.... I'm sad:Some must die(Maybe I):O pray it take them suddenly!"Bill!" "Wot ho!""Concertina: let it go—'If you were the Only Girl.'" "Cheero!""If you were the Only Girl."
Damn. 'Abide with Me....' Not now!—Well ... if you must: just your way.It racks me till the tears nigh flow.The tune see-saws. I turn, I prayBehind my hand,Shaken, unmanned,In groans that God may understand:Miracle!"Let, let them all survive this hell."Hear 'Trumpeter, what are you sounding?' swell.(My God! I guess indeed too well:The broken heart, eyes front, proud knell!)Grant but mine sound with their farewell."It's the Last Post I'm sounding."
Not a sign of life we rouseIn any square close-shuttered houseThat flanks the road we amble downToward far trenches through the town.The dark, snow-slushy, empty street....Tingle of frost in brow and feet....Horse-breath goes dimly up like smoke.No sound but the smacking strokeOf a sergeant flings each armOut and across to keep him warm,And the sudden splashing crackOf ice-pools broken by our track.More dark houses, yet no signOf life.... An axle's creak and whine....The splash of hooves, the strain of trace....Clatter: we cross the market place.Deep quiet again, and on we lurchUnder the shadow of a church:Its tower ascends, fog-wreathed and grim;Within its aisles a light burns dim....When, marvellous! from overhead,Like abrupt speech of one deemed dead,Speech-moved by some Superior Will,A bell tolls thrice and then is still.And suddenly I know that nowThe priest within, with shining brow,Lifts high the small round of the Host.The server's tingling bell is lostIn clash of the greater overhead.Peace like a wave descends, is spread,While watch the peasants' reverent eyes....The bell's boom trembles, hangs, and dies.O people who bow down to seeThe Miracle of Calvary,The bitter and the glorious,Bow down, bow down and pray for us.Once more our anguished way we takeToward our Golgotha, to makeFor all our lovers sacrifice.Again the troubled bell tolls thrice.And slowly, slowly, lifted upDazzles the overflowing cup.O worshipping, fond multitude,Remember us too, and our blood.Turn hearts to us as we go by,Salute those about to die,Plead for them, the deep bell toll:Their sacrifice must soon be whole.Entreat you for such hearts as breakWith the premonitory acheOf bodies, whose feet, hands, and side,Must soon be torn, pierced, crucified.Sue for them and all of usWho the world over suffer thus,Who have scarce time for prayer indeed,Who only march and die and bleed.
Not a sign of life we rouseIn any square close-shuttered houseThat flanks the road we amble downToward far trenches through the town.
The dark, snow-slushy, empty street....Tingle of frost in brow and feet....Horse-breath goes dimly up like smoke.No sound but the smacking stroke
Of a sergeant flings each armOut and across to keep him warm,And the sudden splashing crackOf ice-pools broken by our track.
More dark houses, yet no signOf life.... An axle's creak and whine....The splash of hooves, the strain of trace....Clatter: we cross the market place.
Deep quiet again, and on we lurchUnder the shadow of a church:Its tower ascends, fog-wreathed and grim;Within its aisles a light burns dim....
When, marvellous! from overhead,Like abrupt speech of one deemed dead,Speech-moved by some Superior Will,A bell tolls thrice and then is still.
And suddenly I know that nowThe priest within, with shining brow,Lifts high the small round of the Host.The server's tingling bell is lost
In clash of the greater overhead.Peace like a wave descends, is spread,While watch the peasants' reverent eyes....
The bell's boom trembles, hangs, and dies.
O people who bow down to seeThe Miracle of Calvary,The bitter and the glorious,Bow down, bow down and pray for us.
Once more our anguished way we takeToward our Golgotha, to makeFor all our lovers sacrifice.Again the troubled bell tolls thrice.
And slowly, slowly, lifted upDazzles the overflowing cup.
O worshipping, fond multitude,Remember us too, and our blood.
Turn hearts to us as we go by,Salute those about to die,Plead for them, the deep bell toll:Their sacrifice must soon be whole.
Entreat you for such hearts as breakWith the premonitory acheOf bodies, whose feet, hands, and side,Must soon be torn, pierced, crucified.
Sue for them and all of usWho the world over suffer thus,Who have scarce time for prayer indeed,Who only march and die and bleed.
The town is left, the road leads on,Bluely glaring in the sun,Toward where in the sunrise gateDeath, honour, and fierce battle wait.
The town is left, the road leads on,Bluely glaring in the sun,Toward where in the sunrise gateDeath, honour, and fierce battle wait.
Downward slopes the wild red sun.We lie around a waiting gun;Soon we shall load and fire and load.But, hark! a sound beats down the road."'Ello! wot's up?" "Let's 'ave a look!""Come on, Ginger, drop that book!""Wot an 'ell of bloody noise!""It's the Yorks and Lancs, meboys!"So we crowd: hear, watch them come—One man drubbing on a drum,A crazy, high mouth-organ blowing,Tin cans rattling, cat-calls, crowing....And above their rhythmic feetA whirl of shrilling loud and sweet,Round mouths whistling in unison;Shouts: "'O's goin' to out the 'Un?"Back us up, mates!" "Gawd, we will!""'Eave them shells at Kaiser Bill!""Art from Lancashire, melad?""Gi' 'en a cheer, boys; make 'en glad.""'Ip 'urrah!" "Give Fritz the chuck.""Good ol' bloody Yorks!" "Good-luck!""Cheer!"I cannot cheer or speakLest my voice, my heart must break.
Downward slopes the wild red sun.We lie around a waiting gun;Soon we shall load and fire and load.But, hark! a sound beats down the road.
"'Ello! wot's up?" "Let's 'ave a look!""Come on, Ginger, drop that book!""Wot an 'ell of bloody noise!""It's the Yorks and Lancs, meboys!"
So we crowd: hear, watch them come—One man drubbing on a drum,A crazy, high mouth-organ blowing,Tin cans rattling, cat-calls, crowing....
And above their rhythmic feetA whirl of shrilling loud and sweet,Round mouths whistling in unison;Shouts: "'O's goin' to out the 'Un?
"Back us up, mates!" "Gawd, we will!""'Eave them shells at Kaiser Bill!""Art from Lancashire, melad?""Gi' 'en a cheer, boys; make 'en glad."
"'Ip 'urrah!" "Give Fritz the chuck.""Good ol' bloody Yorks!" "Good-luck!""Cheer!"I cannot cheer or speakLest my voice, my heart must break.
Note.—(1) "Zero" is the hour agreed upon by the Staff when the infantry are to go over the parapet and advance to the assault. (2) Guns are said to "lift" when, after pounding the front line of the enemy, they lengthen their range and set up a barrier of fire behind his front line to prevent supports moving up. Our infantry then advance.The beating of the guns grows louder."Not long, boys, now."My heart burns whiter, fearfuller, prouder.Hurricanes growAs guns redouble their fire.Through the shaken periscope peeping,I glimpse their wire:Black earth, fountains of earth rise, leaping,Spouting like shocks of meeting waves.Death's fountains are playing.Shells like shrieking birds rush over;Crash and din rises higher.A stream of lead ravesOver us from the left ... (we safe under cover!)Crash! Reverberation! Crash!Acrid smoke billowing. Flash upon flash.Black smoke drifting. The German lineVanishes in confusion, smoke. Cries, and cryOf our men, "Gah, yer swine!Ye're for it" dieIn a hurricane of shell.One cry:"We're comin' soon! look out!"There is opened hellOver there; fragments fly,Rifles and bits of men whirled at the sky:Dust, smoke, thunder! A sudden boutOf machine guns chattering....And redoubled battering,As if in fury at their daring!...No good staring.Time soon now ... home ... house on a sunny hill....Gone like a flickered page:Time soon now ... zero ... will engage....A sudden thrill—"Fix bayonets!"Gods! we have our fillOf fear, hysteria, exultation, rage,Rage to kill.My heart burns hot, whiter and whiter,Contracts tighter and tighter,Until I stifle with the willLong forged, now used(Though utterly strained)—O pounding heart,Baffled, confused,Heart panged, head singing, dizzily pained—To do my part.Blindness a moment. Sick.There the men are!Bayonets ready: click!Time goes quick;A stumbled prayer ... somehow a blazing starIn a blue night ... where?Again prayer.The tongue trips. Start:How's time? Soon now. Two minutes or less.The gun's fury mounting higher....Their utmost. I lift a silent hand. Unseen I blessThose hearts will follow me.And beautifully,Now beautifully my will grips.Soul calm and round and filmed and white!A shout: "Men, no such order as retire"I nod.The whistle's 'twixt my lips....I catchA wan, worn smile at me.Dear men!The pale wrist-watch....The quiet hand ticks on amid the din.The guns againRise to a last fury, to a rage, a lust:Kill! Pound! Kill! Pound! Pound!Now comes the thrust!My part ... dizziness ... will ... but trustThese men. The great guns rise;Their fury seems to burst the earth and skies!They lift.Gather, heart, all thoughts that drift;Be steel, soul,Compress thyselfInto a round, bright whole.I cannot speak.Time. Time!I hear my whistle shriek,Between teeth set;I fling an arm up,Scramble up the grimeOver the parapet!I'm up. Go on.Something meets us.Head down into the storm that greets us.A wail.Lights. Blurr.Gone.On, on. Leăd. Leăd. Hail.Spatter. Whirr! Whirr!"Toward that patch of brown;Direction left." Bullets a stream.Devouring thought crying in a dream.Men, crumpled, going down....Go on. Go.Deafness. Numbness. The loudening tornado.Bullets. Mud. Stumbling and skating.My voice's strangled shout:"Steady pace, boys!"The still light: gladness."Look, sir. Look out!"Ha! ha! Bunched figures waiting.Revolver levelled quick!Flick! Flick!Red as blood.Germans. Germans.Good! O good!Cool madness.
Note.—(1) "Zero" is the hour agreed upon by the Staff when the infantry are to go over the parapet and advance to the assault. (2) Guns are said to "lift" when, after pounding the front line of the enemy, they lengthen their range and set up a barrier of fire behind his front line to prevent supports moving up. Our infantry then advance.
The beating of the guns grows louder."Not long, boys, now."My heart burns whiter, fearfuller, prouder.Hurricanes growAs guns redouble their fire.Through the shaken periscope peeping,I glimpse their wire:Black earth, fountains of earth rise, leaping,Spouting like shocks of meeting waves.Death's fountains are playing.Shells like shrieking birds rush over;Crash and din rises higher.A stream of lead ravesOver us from the left ... (we safe under cover!)Crash! Reverberation! Crash!Acrid smoke billowing. Flash upon flash.Black smoke drifting. The German lineVanishes in confusion, smoke. Cries, and cryOf our men, "Gah, yer swine!Ye're for it" dieIn a hurricane of shell.
One cry:"We're comin' soon! look out!"There is opened hellOver there; fragments fly,Rifles and bits of men whirled at the sky:Dust, smoke, thunder! A sudden boutOf machine guns chattering....And redoubled battering,As if in fury at their daring!...
No good staring.
Time soon now ... home ... house on a sunny hill....Gone like a flickered page:Time soon now ... zero ... will engage....
A sudden thrill—"Fix bayonets!"Gods! we have our fillOf fear, hysteria, exultation, rage,Rage to kill.
My heart burns hot, whiter and whiter,Contracts tighter and tighter,Until I stifle with the willLong forged, now used(Though utterly strained)—O pounding heart,Baffled, confused,Heart panged, head singing, dizzily pained—To do my part.
Blindness a moment. Sick.There the men are!Bayonets ready: click!Time goes quick;A stumbled prayer ... somehow a blazing starIn a blue night ... where?Again prayer.The tongue trips. Start:How's time? Soon now. Two minutes or less.The gun's fury mounting higher....Their utmost. I lift a silent hand. Unseen I blessThose hearts will follow me.And beautifully,Now beautifully my will grips.Soul calm and round and filmed and white!
A shout: "Men, no such order as retire"I nod.The whistle's 'twixt my lips....I catchA wan, worn smile at me.Dear men!The pale wrist-watch....The quiet hand ticks on amid the din.The guns againRise to a last fury, to a rage, a lust:Kill! Pound! Kill! Pound! Pound!Now comes the thrust!My part ... dizziness ... will ... but trustThese men. The great guns rise;Their fury seems to burst the earth and skies!
They lift.
Gather, heart, all thoughts that drift;Be steel, soul,Compress thyselfInto a round, bright whole.I cannot speak.
Time. Time!
I hear my whistle shriek,Between teeth set;I fling an arm up,Scramble up the grimeOver the parapet!I'm up. Go on.Something meets us.Head down into the storm that greets us.A wail.Lights. Blurr.Gone.On, on. Leăd. Leăd. Hail.Spatter. Whirr! Whirr!"Toward that patch of brown;Direction left." Bullets a stream.Devouring thought crying in a dream.Men, crumpled, going down....Go on. Go.Deafness. Numbness. The loudening tornado.Bullets. Mud. Stumbling and skating.My voice's strangled shout:"Steady pace, boys!"The still light: gladness."Look, sir. Look out!"Ha! ha! Bunched figures waiting.Revolver levelled quick!Flick! Flick!Red as blood.Germans. Germans.Good! O good!Cool madness.
Come now, O Death,While I am proud,While joy and awe are breath,And heart beats loud!While all around me standMen that I love,The wind blares aloud, the grandSun wheels above.Naked I stand to-dayBefore my doom,Welcome what comes my way,Whatever come.What is there more to askThan that I have?—Companions, love, a task,And a deep grave!Come then, Eternity,If thou my lot;Having been thus, I cannot beAs if I had not.Naked I wait my doom!Earth enough shroud!Death, in thy narrow roomMan can lie proud!
Come now, O Death,While I am proud,While joy and awe are breath,And heart beats loud!
While all around me standMen that I love,The wind blares aloud, the grandSun wheels above.
Naked I stand to-dayBefore my doom,Welcome what comes my way,Whatever come.
What is there more to askThan that I have?—Companions, love, a task,And a deep grave!
Come then, Eternity,If thou my lot;Having been thus, I cannot beAs if I had not.
Naked I wait my doom!Earth enough shroud!Death, in thy narrow roomMan can lie proud!
Was there love once? I have forgotten her.Was there grief once? grief yet is mine.Other loves I have, men rough, but men who stirMore grief, more joy, than love of thee and thine.Faces cheerful, full of whimsical mirth,Lined by the wind, burned by the sun;Bodies enraptured by the abounding earth,As whose children we are brethren: one.And any moment may descend hot deathTo shatter limbs! pulp, tear, blastBeloved soldiers who love rough life and breathNot less for dying faithful to the last.O the fading eyes, the grimed face turned bony,Oped mouth gushing, fallen head,Lessening pressure of a hand shrunk, clammed, and stony!O sudden spasm, release of the dead!Was there love once? I have forgotten her.Was there grief once? grief yet is mine.O loved, living, dying, heroic soldier,All, all, my joy, my grief, my love, are thine!
Was there love once? I have forgotten her.Was there grief once? grief yet is mine.Other loves I have, men rough, but men who stirMore grief, more joy, than love of thee and thine.
Faces cheerful, full of whimsical mirth,Lined by the wind, burned by the sun;Bodies enraptured by the abounding earth,As whose children we are brethren: one.
And any moment may descend hot deathTo shatter limbs! pulp, tear, blastBeloved soldiers who love rough life and breathNot less for dying faithful to the last.
O the fading eyes, the grimed face turned bony,Oped mouth gushing, fallen head,Lessening pressure of a hand shrunk, clammed, and stony!O sudden spasm, release of the dead!
Was there love once? I have forgotten her.Was there grief once? grief yet is mine.O loved, living, dying, heroic soldier,All, all, my joy, my grief, my love, are thine!
Through the light rain I think I see them going,Through the light rain under the muffled skies;Across the fields a stealthy wet wind wanders,The mist bedews their tunics, dizzies their brains.Shoulder-high, khaki shoulder by shoulder,They bear my Boy upon his last journey.Night is closing. The wind sighs, ebbs, and falters....They totter dreaming, deem they see his face.Even as Vikings of old their slaughtered leaderUpon their shoulders, so now bear they onAll that remains of Boy, my friend, their leader,An officer who died for them under the dawn.O that I were there that I might carry,Might share that bitter load in grief, in pride!...I see upon bronze faces love, submission,And a dumb sorrow for that cheerful Boy.Now they arrive. The priest repeats the service.The drifting rain obscures.They are dispersed.The dying sun streams out: a moment's radiance;The still, wet, glistening grave; the trod sward steaming.
Through the light rain I think I see them going,Through the light rain under the muffled skies;Across the fields a stealthy wet wind wanders,The mist bedews their tunics, dizzies their brains.
Shoulder-high, khaki shoulder by shoulder,They bear my Boy upon his last journey.Night is closing. The wind sighs, ebbs, and falters....They totter dreaming, deem they see his face.
Even as Vikings of old their slaughtered leaderUpon their shoulders, so now bear they onAll that remains of Boy, my friend, their leader,An officer who died for them under the dawn.
O that I were there that I might carry,Might share that bitter load in grief, in pride!...I see upon bronze faces love, submission,And a dumb sorrow for that cheerful Boy.
Now they arrive. The priest repeats the service.The drifting rain obscures.They are dispersed.The dying sun streams out: a moment's radiance;The still, wet, glistening grave; the trod sward steaming.
Sudden great guns startle, echoing on the silence.Thunder. Thunder.He has Fallen in battle.(O Boy! Boy!)Lessening now. The rainPatters anew. Far guns rumble and shudderAnd night descends upon the desolate plain.
Sudden great guns startle, echoing on the silence.Thunder. Thunder.He has Fallen in battle.(O Boy! Boy!)Lessening now. The rainPatters anew. Far guns rumble and shudderAnd night descends upon the desolate plain.
Lawford,September, 1916.
Lawford,September, 1916.
In a far field, away from England, liesA Boy I friended with a care like love;All day the wide earth aches, the cold wind cries,The melancholy clouds drive on above.There, separate from him by a little span,Two eagle cousins, generous, reckless, free,Two Grenfells, lie, and my Boy is made man,One with these elder knights of chivalry.Boy, who expected not this dreadful day,Yet leaped, a soldier, at the sudden call,Drank as your fathers, deeper though than they,The soldier's cup of anguish, blood, and gall,Not now as friend, but as a soldier, ISalute you fallen; for the Soldier's nameOur greatest honour is, if worthilyThese wayward hearts assume and bear the same:The Soldier's is a name none recognize,Saving his fellows. Deeds are all his flower.He lives, he toils, he suffers, and he dies,And if not all in vain this is his dower:The Soldier is the Martyr of a nation,Expresses but is subject to its will;His is the Pride ennobles Resignation,As his the rebel Spirit-to-fulfil.Anonymous, he takes his country's name,Becomes its blindest vassal—though its lordBy force of arms; its shame is called his shame,As its the glory gathered by his sword.Lonely he is: he has nor friend nor lover,Sith in his body he is dedicate....His comrades only share his life, or offerTheir further deeds to one more heart oblate.Living, he's made an 'Argument Beyond'For others' peace; but when hot wars have birth,For all his brothers' safety becomes bondTo Fate or Whatsoever sways this Earth.Dying, his mangled body, to inter it,He doth bequeath him into comrade hands;His soul he renders to some Captain SpiritThat knows, admires, pities, and understands!All this you knew by that which doth resideDeeper than learning; by apprehensionOf ancient, dark, and melancholy prideYou were a Soldier true, and died as one.All day the cold wind cries, the clouds unroll;But to the cloud and wind I cry, "Be still!"What need of comfort has the heroic soul?What soldier finds a soldier's grave is chill?
In a far field, away from England, liesA Boy I friended with a care like love;All day the wide earth aches, the cold wind cries,The melancholy clouds drive on above.
There, separate from him by a little span,Two eagle cousins, generous, reckless, free,Two Grenfells, lie, and my Boy is made man,One with these elder knights of chivalry.
Boy, who expected not this dreadful day,Yet leaped, a soldier, at the sudden call,Drank as your fathers, deeper though than they,The soldier's cup of anguish, blood, and gall,
Not now as friend, but as a soldier, ISalute you fallen; for the Soldier's nameOur greatest honour is, if worthilyThese wayward hearts assume and bear the same:
The Soldier's is a name none recognize,Saving his fellows. Deeds are all his flower.He lives, he toils, he suffers, and he dies,And if not all in vain this is his dower:
The Soldier is the Martyr of a nation,Expresses but is subject to its will;His is the Pride ennobles Resignation,As his the rebel Spirit-to-fulfil.
Anonymous, he takes his country's name,Becomes its blindest vassal—though its lordBy force of arms; its shame is called his shame,As its the glory gathered by his sword.
Lonely he is: he has nor friend nor lover,Sith in his body he is dedicate....His comrades only share his life, or offerTheir further deeds to one more heart oblate.
Living, he's made an 'Argument Beyond'For others' peace; but when hot wars have birth,For all his brothers' safety becomes bondTo Fate or Whatsoever sways this Earth.
Dying, his mangled body, to inter it,He doth bequeath him into comrade hands;His soul he renders to some Captain SpiritThat knows, admires, pities, and understands!
All this you knew by that which doth resideDeeper than learning; by apprehensionOf ancient, dark, and melancholy prideYou were a Soldier true, and died as one.
All day the cold wind cries, the clouds unroll;But to the cloud and wind I cry, "Be still!"What need of comfort has the heroic soul?What soldier finds a soldier's grave is chill?
Lawford,September, 1916.
Lawford,September, 1916.
God, if Thou livest, Thine eye on me bend,And stay my grief and bring my pain to end:Pain for my lost, the deepest, rarest friendMan ever had, whence groweth this despair.I had a friend: but, O! he is now dead;I had a vision: for which he has bled:I had happiness: but it is fled.God help me now, for I must needs despair.His eyes were dark and sad, yet never sad;In them moved sombre figures sable-clad;They were the deepest eyes man ever had,They were my solemn joy—now my despair.In my perpetual night they on me look,Reading me slowly; and I cannot brookTheir silent beauty, for nor crack nor nookCan cover me but they shall find me there.His face was straight, his mouth was wide yet trim;His hair was tangled black, and through its dimSoftness his perplexed hand would writhe and swim—Hands that were small on arms strong-knit yet spare.He stood no taller than our common span,Swam but nor farther leaped nor faster ran;I know him spirit now, who seemed a man.God help me now, for I must needs despair.His voice was low and clear, yet it could riseAnd beat in indignation at the skies;Then no man dared to meet his fire-filled eyes,And even I, his own friend, did not dare.With humorous wistfulness he spoke to us,Yet there was something more mysterious,Beyond his words or silence, glorious:I know not what, but we could feel it there.I mind now how we sat one winter nightWhile past his open window raced the brightSnow-torrent golden in the hot firelight....I see him smiling at the streamered air.I watched him to the open window go,And lean long smiling, whispering to the snow,Play with his hands amid the fiery flowAnd when he turned it flamed amid his hair.Without arose a sudden bell's huge clangUntil a thousand bells in answer rangAnd midnight Oxford hummed and reeled and sangUnder the whitening fury of the air.His figure standing in the fiery room....Behind him the snow seething through the gloom....The great bells shaking, thundering out their doom....Soft Fiery Snow and Night his being were.Yet he could be simply glad and take his choice,Walking spring woods, mimicking each bird voice;When he was glad we learned how to rejoice:If the birds sing, 'tis to my spite they dare.All women loved him, yet his mother wonHis tenderness alone, for Moon and SunAnd Rain were for him sister, brother, lovèd one,And in their life he took an equal share.Strength he had, too; strength of unrusted willButtressed his natural charity, and illFared it with him who sought his good to kill:He was its Prince and Champion anywhere.Yet he had weakness, for he burned too fast;And his unrecked-of body at the lastHe in impatience on the bayonets cast,Body whose spirit had outsoared them there.I had a friend, but, O! he is now dead.Fate would not let me follow where he led.In him I had happiness. But he is dead.God help me now, for I must needs despair.God, if Thou livest, and indeed didst sendThine only Son to be to all a Friend,Bid His dark, pitying eyes upon me bend,And His hand heal, orI must needs despair.In Hospital,Autumn, 1915.
God, if Thou livest, Thine eye on me bend,And stay my grief and bring my pain to end:Pain for my lost, the deepest, rarest friendMan ever had, whence groweth this despair.
I had a friend: but, O! he is now dead;I had a vision: for which he has bled:I had happiness: but it is fled.God help me now, for I must needs despair.
His eyes were dark and sad, yet never sad;In them moved sombre figures sable-clad;They were the deepest eyes man ever had,They were my solemn joy—now my despair.
In my perpetual night they on me look,Reading me slowly; and I cannot brookTheir silent beauty, for nor crack nor nookCan cover me but they shall find me there.
His face was straight, his mouth was wide yet trim;His hair was tangled black, and through its dimSoftness his perplexed hand would writhe and swim—Hands that were small on arms strong-knit yet spare.
He stood no taller than our common span,Swam but nor farther leaped nor faster ran;I know him spirit now, who seemed a man.God help me now, for I must needs despair.
His voice was low and clear, yet it could riseAnd beat in indignation at the skies;Then no man dared to meet his fire-filled eyes,And even I, his own friend, did not dare.
With humorous wistfulness he spoke to us,Yet there was something more mysterious,Beyond his words or silence, glorious:I know not what, but we could feel it there.
I mind now how we sat one winter nightWhile past his open window raced the brightSnow-torrent golden in the hot firelight....I see him smiling at the streamered air.
I watched him to the open window go,And lean long smiling, whispering to the snow,Play with his hands amid the fiery flowAnd when he turned it flamed amid his hair.
Without arose a sudden bell's huge clangUntil a thousand bells in answer rangAnd midnight Oxford hummed and reeled and sangUnder the whitening fury of the air.
His figure standing in the fiery room....Behind him the snow seething through the gloom....The great bells shaking, thundering out their doom....Soft Fiery Snow and Night his being were.
Yet he could be simply glad and take his choice,Walking spring woods, mimicking each bird voice;When he was glad we learned how to rejoice:If the birds sing, 'tis to my spite they dare.
All women loved him, yet his mother wonHis tenderness alone, for Moon and SunAnd Rain were for him sister, brother, lovèd one,And in their life he took an equal share.
Strength he had, too; strength of unrusted willButtressed his natural charity, and illFared it with him who sought his good to kill:He was its Prince and Champion anywhere.
Yet he had weakness, for he burned too fast;And his unrecked-of body at the lastHe in impatience on the bayonets cast,Body whose spirit had outsoared them there.
I had a friend, but, O! he is now dead.Fate would not let me follow where he led.In him I had happiness. But he is dead.God help me now, for I must needs despair.
God, if Thou livest, and indeed didst sendThine only Son to be to all a Friend,Bid His dark, pitying eyes upon me bend,And His hand heal, orI must needs despair.
In Hospital,Autumn, 1915.
How still the day is, and the air how bright!A thrush sings and is silent in the wood;The hillside sleeps dizzy with heat and light;A rhythmic murmur fills the quietude;A woodpecker prolongs his leisured flight,Rising and falling on the solitude.But there are those who far from yon wood lie,Buried within the trench where all were found.A weight of mould oppresses every eye,Within that cabin close their limbs are bound,And there they rot amid the long profound,Disastrous silence of grey earth and sky.These once, too, rested where now rests but one,Who scarce can lift his panged and heavy head,Who drinks in grief the hot light of the sun,Whose eyes watch dully the green branches spread,Who feels his currents ever slowlier run,Whose lips repeat a silent '... Dead! all dead!'O youths to come shall drink air warm and bright,Shall hear the bird cry in the sunny wood,All my Young England fell to-day in fight:That bird, that wood, was ransomed by our blood!I pray you when the drum rolls let your moodBe worthy of our deaths and your delight.1916.
How still the day is, and the air how bright!A thrush sings and is silent in the wood;The hillside sleeps dizzy with heat and light;A rhythmic murmur fills the quietude;A woodpecker prolongs his leisured flight,Rising and falling on the solitude.
But there are those who far from yon wood lie,Buried within the trench where all were found.A weight of mould oppresses every eye,Within that cabin close their limbs are bound,And there they rot amid the long profound,Disastrous silence of grey earth and sky.
These once, too, rested where now rests but one,Who scarce can lift his panged and heavy head,Who drinks in grief the hot light of the sun,Whose eyes watch dully the green branches spread,Who feels his currents ever slowlier run,Whose lips repeat a silent '... Dead! all dead!'
O youths to come shall drink air warm and bright,Shall hear the bird cry in the sunny wood,All my Young England fell to-day in fight:That bird, that wood, was ransomed by our blood!
I pray you when the drum rolls let your moodBe worthy of our deaths and your delight.
1916.
Alone upon the monotonous ocean's vergeI take my stand, and view with heavy eyeThe grey wave rise. I hear its sullen surge,Its bubbling rush and sudden downward sigh....My friends are dead ... there fades from me the lightOf her warm face I loved; upon me stareIn the dull noon or deadest hour of nightThe smiling lips and chill eyes of Despair.A light wind blows.... I hear the low wave stealIn and collapse like a despondent breath.My life has ebbed: I neither see nor feel:I am suspended between life and death.Again the wave caves in. O, I am wornSmoother than any pebble on the beach!I would dissolve to that whence I was born,Or alway bide beyond the long wave's reach.O Will, thou only strengthener of man's heartWhen all is gone—love and the love of friends,When even Earth's comfort has become a partOf that futility nor breaks nor mends:Strengthen me now against these utmost wrongs;Stay my wrecked spirit within thy control,That men may find some fury in my songsWhich, like strong wine, shall fortify the soul.Beneath Gold Cap,June, 1916.
Alone upon the monotonous ocean's vergeI take my stand, and view with heavy eyeThe grey wave rise. I hear its sullen surge,Its bubbling rush and sudden downward sigh....
My friends are dead ... there fades from me the lightOf her warm face I loved; upon me stareIn the dull noon or deadest hour of nightThe smiling lips and chill eyes of Despair.
A light wind blows.... I hear the low wave stealIn and collapse like a despondent breath.My life has ebbed: I neither see nor feel:I am suspended between life and death.
Again the wave caves in. O, I am wornSmoother than any pebble on the beach!I would dissolve to that whence I was born,Or alway bide beyond the long wave's reach.
O Will, thou only strengthener of man's heartWhen all is gone—love and the love of friends,When even Earth's comfort has become a partOf that futility nor breaks nor mends:
Strengthen me now against these utmost wrongs;Stay my wrecked spirit within thy control,That men may find some fury in my songsWhich, like strong wine, shall fortify the soul.
Beneath Gold Cap,June, 1916.
The grey wind and the grey seaTossing under the long grey sky....My heart is lonelier than the wind;My heart is emptier than the sky,And beats more heavilyThan the cold surge beneath the gull,Wheeling with his reiterant cryOf loneliness.... All, all is lone:Alone!...And so am I.
The grey wind and the grey seaTossing under the long grey sky....My heart is lonelier than the wind;My heart is emptier than the sky,And beats more heavilyThan the cold surge beneath the gull,Wheeling with his reiterant cryOf loneliness.... All, all is lone:Alone!...And so am I.
Amazement fills my heart to-night,Amaze and awful fears;I am a ship that sees no light,But blindly onward steers.Flung toward heaven's toppling rage,Sunk between steep and steep,A lost and wondrous fight I wageWith the embattled deep.I neither know nor care at lengthWhere drives the storm about;Only I summon all my strengthAnd swear to ride it out.Yet give I thanks; despite these wars,My ship—though blindly blown,Long lost to sun or moon or stars—Still stands up alone.I need no trust in borrowed spars;My strength is yet my own.
Amazement fills my heart to-night,Amaze and awful fears;I am a ship that sees no light,But blindly onward steers.
Flung toward heaven's toppling rage,Sunk between steep and steep,A lost and wondrous fight I wageWith the embattled deep.
I neither know nor care at lengthWhere drives the storm about;Only I summon all my strengthAnd swear to ride it out.
Yet give I thanks; despite these wars,My ship—though blindly blown,Long lost to sun or moon or stars—Still stands up alone.I need no trust in borrowed spars;My strength is yet my own.
Upon the sweltering sea's enormous round,Asmoke, adazzle, brown and brown and gold,A hushed light falls....Then clouds without a soundDarken the sea within their curtain's fold.The sombre clouds through which the sick sun climbsSmoke slowly on. Below there is no breath.The long black beach turns livid.The sea chimes.I taste the fulness of my spirit's death.
Upon the sweltering sea's enormous round,Asmoke, adazzle, brown and brown and gold,A hushed light falls....Then clouds without a soundDarken the sea within their curtain's fold.
The sombre clouds through which the sick sun climbsSmoke slowly on. Below there is no breath.The long black beach turns livid.The sea chimes.I taste the fulness of my spirit's death.
The sea darkens. Waves roar and rush.The wind rises. The last birds haste.One star over eve's bitter flushSpills on the spouting waste.Loud and louder the darkened sea.The wind shrills on a monotone.Sky and deep, wrecked confusedly,Travail and cry as one.Long I look on the deepening sky,The chill star, the forlorn sea breaking;For what does my spirit cry?For what is my heart so aching?Is it home? but I have no home.Is it tears? but I no more weep.Is it love? love went by dumb.Is it sleep? but I would not sleep.Must I fare, then, in fear and feverOn a journey become thrice far—Whose sun has gone down for ever,Whose night brings no guiding star?The wind roars, and an ashen beamWaving up shrinks away in haste.The waves crash. The star's trickling gleamTravels the warring waste.I look up. In the windy heightThe lone orb, serene and afar,Shakes with excess of her light....Beauty, be thou my star!
The sea darkens. Waves roar and rush.The wind rises. The last birds haste.One star over eve's bitter flushSpills on the spouting waste.
Loud and louder the darkened sea.The wind shrills on a monotone.Sky and deep, wrecked confusedly,Travail and cry as one.
Long I look on the deepening sky,The chill star, the forlorn sea breaking;For what does my spirit cry?For what is my heart so aching?
Is it home? but I have no home.Is it tears? but I no more weep.Is it love? love went by dumb.Is it sleep? but I would not sleep.
Must I fare, then, in fear and feverOn a journey become thrice far—Whose sun has gone down for ever,Whose night brings no guiding star?
The wind roars, and an ashen beamWaving up shrinks away in haste.The waves crash. The star's trickling gleamTravels the warring waste.
I look up. In the windy heightThe lone orb, serene and afar,Shakes with excess of her light....
Beauty, be thou my star!