XXVITWO SONNETS

May 1915

SAINTS have adored the lofty soul of you.Poets have whitened at your high renown.We stand among the many millions whoDo hourly wait to pass your pathway down.You, so familiar, once were strange: we triedTo live as of your presence unaware.But now in every road on every sideWe see your straight and steadfast signpost there.I think it like that signpost in my landHoary and tall, which pointed me to goUpward, into the hills, on the right hand,Where the mists swim and the winds shriek and blow,A homeless land and friendless, but a landI did not know and that I wished to know.

I think it like that signpost in my landHoary and tall, which pointed me to goUpward, into the hills, on the right hand,Where the mists swim and the winds shriek and blow,A homeless land and friendless, but a landI did not know and that I wished to know.

Such, such is Death: no triumph: no defeat:Only an empty pail, a slate rubbed clean,A merciful putting away of what has been.And this we know: Death is not Life effete,Life crushed, the broken pail. We who have seenSo marvellous things know well the end not yet.Victor and vanquished are a-one in death:Coward and brave: friend, foe. Ghosts do not say“Come, what was your record when you drew breath?”But a big blot has hid each yesterdaySo poor, so manifestly incomplete.And your bright Promise, withered long and sped,Is touched, stirs, rises, opens and grows sweetAnd blossoms and is you, when you are dead.

Such, such is Death: no triumph: no defeat:Only an empty pail, a slate rubbed clean,A merciful putting away of what has been.

And this we know: Death is not Life effete,Life crushed, the broken pail. We who have seenSo marvellous things know well the end not yet.

Victor and vanquished are a-one in death:Coward and brave: friend, foe. Ghosts do not say“Come, what was your record when you drew breath?”But a big blot has hid each yesterdaySo poor, so manifestly incomplete.And your bright Promise, withered long and sped,Is touched, stirs, rises, opens and grows sweetAnd blossoms and is you, when you are dead.

12 June 1915

WHEN you see millions of the mouthless deadAcross your dreams in pale battalions go,Say not soft things as other men have said,That you’ll remember. For you need not so.Give them not praise. For, deaf, how should they knowIt is not curses heaped on each gashed head?Nor tears. Their blind eyes see not your tears flow.Nor honour. It is easy to be dead.Say only this, “They are dead.” Then add thereto,“Yet many a better one has died before.”Then, scanning all the o’ercrowded mass, should youPerceive one face that you loved heretofore,It is a spook. None wears the face you knew.Great death has made all his for evermore.

THERE is such change in all those fields,Such motion rhythmic, ordered, free,Where ever-glancing summer yieldsBirth, fragrance, sunlight, immanency,To make us view our rights of birth.What shall we do? How shall we die?We, captives of a roaming earth,Mid shades that life and light deny.Blank summer’s surfeit heaves in mist;Dumb earth basks dewy-washed; while stillWe whom Intelligence has kissedDo make us shackles of our will.And yet I know in each loud brain,Round-clamped with laws and learning so,Is madness more and lust of strainThan earth’s jerked godlings e’er can know.The false Delilah of our brainHas set us round the millstone going.O lust of roving! lust of pain!Our hair will not be long in growing.Like blinded Samson round we go.We hear the grindstone groan and cry.Yet we are kings, we know, we know.What shall we do? How shall we die?Take but our pauper’s gift of birth,O let us from the grindstone free!And tread the maddening gladdening earthIn strength close-braced with purity.The earth is old; we ever new.Our eyes should see no other senseThan this, eternally toDO—Our joy, our task, our recompense;Up unexploréd mountains move,Track tireless through great wastes afar,Nor slumber in the arms of love,Nor tremble on the brink of war;Make Beauty and make Rest give place,Mock Prudence loud—and she is gone,Smite Satisfaction on the faceAnd tread the ghost of Ease upon.Light-lipped and singing press we hardOver old earth which now is worn,Triumphant, buffetted and scarred,By billows howled at, tempest-torn,Toward blue horizons far away(Which do not give the rest we need,But some long strife, more than this play,Some task that will be stern indeed)—We ever new, we ever young,We happy creatures of a day!What will the gods say, seeing us strungAs nobly and as taut as they?

The false Delilah of our brainHas set us round the millstone going.O lust of roving! lust of pain!Our hair will not be long in growing.Like blinded Samson round we go.We hear the grindstone groan and cry.Yet we are kings, we know, we know.What shall we do? How shall we die?

Take but our pauper’s gift of birth,O let us from the grindstone free!And tread the maddening gladdening earthIn strength close-braced with purity.The earth is old; we ever new.Our eyes should see no other senseThan this, eternally toDO—Our joy, our task, our recompense;Up unexploréd mountains move,Track tireless through great wastes afar,Nor slumber in the arms of love,Nor tremble on the brink of war;Make Beauty and make Rest give place,Mock Prudence loud—and she is gone,Smite Satisfaction on the faceAnd tread the ghost of Ease upon.Light-lipped and singing press we hardOver old earth which now is worn,Triumphant, buffetted and scarred,By billows howled at, tempest-torn,Toward blue horizons far away(Which do not give the rest we need,But some long strife, more than this play,Some task that will be stern indeed)—We ever new, we ever young,We happy creatures of a day!What will the gods say, seeing us strungAs nobly and as taut as they?

IHAVE not brought my OdysseyWith me here across the sea;But you’ll remember, when I sayHow, when they went down Sparta way,To sandy Sparta, long ere dawnHorses were harnessed, rations drawn,Equipment polished sparkling bright,And breakfasts swallowed (as the whiteOf Eastern heavens turned to gold)—The dogs barked, swift farewells were told.The sun springs up, the horses neigh,Crackles the whip thrice—then away!From sun-go-up to sun-go-downAll day across the sandy downThe gallant horses galloped, tillThe wind across the downs more chillBlew, the sun sank and all the roadWas darkened, that it only showedRight at the end the town’s red lightAnd twilight glimmering into night.The horses never slackened tillThey reached the doorway and stood still.Then came the knock, the unlading; thenThe honey-sweet converse of men,The splendid bath, the change of dress,Then—O the grandeur of their Mess,The henchmen, the prim stewardess!And O the breaking of old ground,The tales, after the port went round!(The wondrous wiles of old Odysseus,Old Agamemnon and his misuseOf his command, and that young chitParis—who didn’t care a bitFor Helen—only to annoy herHe did it really, κ.τ.λ.)But soon they led amidst the dinThe honey-sweet ἀοιδὸς in,Whose eyes were blind, whose soul had sight,Who knew the fame of men in fight—Bard of white hair and trembling foot,Who sang whatever God might putInto his heart.And there he sung,Those war-worn veterans among,Tales of great war and strong hearts wrung,Of clash of arms, of council’s brawl,Of beauty that must early fall,Of battle hate and battle joyBy the old windy walls of Troy.They felt that they were unreal then,Visions and shadow-forms, not men.But those the Bard did sing and say(Some were their comrades, some were they)Took shape and loomed and strengthened moreGreatly than they had guessed of yore.And now the fight begins again,The old war-joy, the old war-pain.Sons of one school across the seaWe have no fear to fight—* * * * * *And soon, O soon, I do not doubt it,With the body or without it,We shall all come tumbling downTo our old wrinkled red-capped town.Perhaps the road up Ilsley way,The old ridge-track, will be my way.High up among the sheep and sky,Look down on Wantage, passing by,And see the smoke from Swindon town;And then full left at Liddington,Where the four winds of heaven meetThe earth-blest traveller to greet.And then my face is toward the south,There is a singing on my mouth:Away to rightward I descryMy Barbury ensconced in sky,Far underneath the Ogbourne twins,And at my feet the thyme and whins,The grasses with their little crownsOf gold, the lovely Aldbourne downs,And that old signpost (well I knewThat crazy signpost, arms askew,Old mother of the four grass ways).And then my mouth is dumb with praise,For, past the wood and chalkpit tiny,A glimpse of Marlborough ἐρατεινή!So I descend beneath the railTo warmth and welcome and wassail.* * * * * *This from the battered trenches—rough,Jingling and tedious enough.And so I sign myself to you:One, who some crooked pathways knewRound Bedwyn: who could scarcely leaveThe Downs on a December eve:Was at his happiest in shorts,And got—not many good reports!Small skill of rhyming in his hand—But you’ll forgive—you’ll understand.

The horses never slackened tillThey reached the doorway and stood still.Then came the knock, the unlading; thenThe honey-sweet converse of men,The splendid bath, the change of dress,Then—O the grandeur of their Mess,The henchmen, the prim stewardess!And O the breaking of old ground,The tales, after the port went round!(The wondrous wiles of old Odysseus,Old Agamemnon and his misuseOf his command, and that young chitParis—who didn’t care a bitFor Helen—only to annoy herHe did it really, κ.τ.λ.)But soon they led amidst the dinThe honey-sweet ἀοιδὸς in,Whose eyes were blind, whose soul had sight,Who knew the fame of men in fight—Bard of white hair and trembling foot,Who sang whatever God might putInto his heart.And there he sung,Those war-worn veterans among,Tales of great war and strong hearts wrung,Of clash of arms, of council’s brawl,Of beauty that must early fall,Of battle hate and battle joyBy the old windy walls of Troy.They felt that they were unreal then,Visions and shadow-forms, not men.But those the Bard did sing and say(Some were their comrades, some were they)Took shape and loomed and strengthened moreGreatly than they had guessed of yore.And now the fight begins again,The old war-joy, the old war-pain.Sons of one school across the seaWe have no fear to fight—* * * * * *And soon, O soon, I do not doubt it,With the body or without it,We shall all come tumbling downTo our old wrinkled red-capped town.Perhaps the road up Ilsley way,The old ridge-track, will be my way.High up among the sheep and sky,Look down on Wantage, passing by,And see the smoke from Swindon town;And then full left at Liddington,Where the four winds of heaven meetThe earth-blest traveller to greet.And then my face is toward the south,There is a singing on my mouth:Away to rightward I descryMy Barbury ensconced in sky,Far underneath the Ogbourne twins,And at my feet the thyme and whins,The grasses with their little crownsOf gold, the lovely Aldbourne downs,And that old signpost (well I knewThat crazy signpost, arms askew,Old mother of the four grass ways).And then my mouth is dumb with praise,For, past the wood and chalkpit tiny,A glimpse of Marlborough ἐρατεινή!So I descend beneath the railTo warmth and welcome and wassail.* * * * * *This from the battered trenches—rough,Jingling and tedious enough.And so I sign myself to you:One, who some crooked pathways knewRound Bedwyn: who could scarcely leaveThe Downs on a December eve:Was at his happiest in shorts,And got—not many good reports!Small skill of rhyming in his hand—But you’ll forgive—you’ll understand.

12 July 1915

THERE is no fitter end than this.No need is now to yearn nor sigh.We know the glory that is his,A glory that can never die.Surely we knew it long before,Knew all along that he was madeFor a swift radiant morning, forA sacrificing swift night-shade.

THERE is no fitter end than this.No need is now to yearn nor sigh.We know the glory that is his,A glory that can never die.

Surely we knew it long before,Knew all along that he was madeFor a swift radiant morning, forA sacrificing swift night-shade.

8 September 1915

WE are now at the end of a few days’ rest, a kilometre behind the lines. Except for the farmyard noises (new style) it might almost be the little village that first took us to its arms six weeks ago. It has been a fine day, following on a day’s rain, so that the earth smells like spring. I have just managed to break off a long conversation with the farmer in charge, a tall thin stooping man with sad eyes, in trouble about his land: les Anglais stole his peas, trod down his corn and robbed his young potatoes: he told it as a father telling of infanticide. There may have been fifteen francs’ worth of damage done; he will never get compensation out of those shifty Belgian burgomasters; but it was not exactly the fifteen francs but the invasion of the soil that had been his for forty years, in which the weather was his onlyenemy, that gave him a kind of Niobe’s dignity to his complaint.

Meanwhile there is the usual evening sluggishness. Close by, a quickfirer is pounding away its allowance of a dozen shells a day. It is like a cow coughing. Eastward there begins a sound (all sounds begin at sundown and continue intermittently till midnight, reaching their zenith at about 9 p.m. and then dying away as sleepiness claims their masters)—a sound like a motor-cycle race—thousands of motor-cycles tearing round and round a track, with cut-outs out: it is really a pair of machine guns firing. And now one sound awakens another. The old cow coughing has started the motor-bykes: and now at intervals of a few minutes come express trains in our direction: you can hear them rushing toward us; they pass going straight for the town behind us: and you hear them begin to slow down as they reach the town: they will soon stop: but no, every time, just before they reach it, is a tremendous railway accident. At least, it must be a railway accident, there is so much noise, and you can see the dust that the wreckage scatters. Sometimes the train behind comes very close, butit too smashes on the wreckage of its forerunners. A tremendous cloud of dust, and then the groans. So many trains and accidents start the cow coughing again: only another cow this time, somewhere behind us, a tremendous-sized cow, θαυμἀσιον ὄσιον, with awful whooping-cough. It must be a buffalo: this cough must burst its sides. And now someone starts sliding down the stairs on a tin tray, to soften the heart of the cow, make it laugh and cure its cough. The din he makes is appalling. He is beating the tray with a broom now, every two minutes a stroke: he has certainly stopped the cow by this time, probably killed it. He will leave off soon (thanks to the “shell tragedy”): we know he can’t last.

It is now almost dark: come out and see the fireworks. While waiting for them to begin you can notice how pale and white the corn is in the summer twilight: no wonder with all this whooping-cough about. And the motor-cycles: notice how all these races have at least a hundred entries: there is never a single cycle going. And why are there no birds coming back to roost? Where is the lark? I haven’t heard him all to-day. He must have got whooping-cough aswell, or be staying at home through fear of the cow. I think it will rain to-morrow, but there have been no swallows circling low, stroking their breasts on the full ears of corn. Anyhow, it is night now, but the circus does not close till twelve. Look! there is the first of them! The fireworks are beginning. Red flares shooting up high into the night, or skimming low over the ground, like the swallows that are not: and rockets bursting into stars. See how they illumine that patch of ground a mile in front. See it, it is deadly pale in their searching light: ghastly, I think, and featureless except for two big lines of eyebrows ashy white, parallel along it, raised a little from its surface. Eyebrows. Where are the eyes? Hush, there are no eyes. What those shooting flares illumine is a mole. A long thin mole. Burrowing by day, and shoving a timorous enquiring snout above the ground by night. Look, did you see it? No, you cannot see it from here. But were you a good deal nearer, you would see behind that snout a long and endless row of sharp shining teeth. The rockets catch the light from these teeth and the teeth glitter: they are silently removed from the poison-spitting gums of the mole. For the mole’s gums spit fire and, they say, sendsomething more concrete than fire darting into the night. Even when its teeth are off. But you cannot see all this from here: you can only see the rockets and then for a moment the pale ground beneath. But it is quite dark now.

And now for the fun of the fair! You will hear soon the riding-master crack his whip—why, there it is. Listen, a thousand whips are cracking, whipping the horses round the ring. At last! The fun of the circus is begun. For the motor-cycle team race has started off again: and the whips are cracking all: and the waresman starts again, beating his loud tin tray to attract the customers: and the cows in the cattle-show start coughing, coughing: and the firework display is at its best: and the circus specials come one after another bearing the merry makers back to town, all to the inevitable crash, the inevitable accident. It can’t last long: these accidents are so frequent, they’ll all get soon killed off, I hope. Yes, it is diminishing. The train service is cancelled (and time too): the cows have stopped coughing: and the cycle race is done. Only the kids who have bought new whips at the fair continue to crack them: and unused rockets that lie about the ground are still sent up occasionally. Butnow the children are being driven off to bed: only an occasional whip-crack now (perhaps the child is now the sufferer): and the tired showmen going over the ground pick up the rocket-sticks and dead flares. At least I suppose this is what must be happening: for occasionally they still find one that has not gone off and send it up out of mere perversity. Else what silence!

It must be midnight now. Yes, it is midnight. But before you go to bed, bend down, put your ear against the ground. What do you hear? “I hear an endless tapping and a tramping to and fro: both are muffled: but they come from everywhere. Tap, tap, tap: pick, pick, pick: tra-mp, tra-mp, tra-mp.” So you see the circus-goers are not all gone to sleep. There is noise coming from the womb of earth, noise of men who tap and mine and dig and pass to and fro on their watch. What you have seen is the foam and froth of war: but underground is labour and throbbing and long watch. Which will one day bear their fruit. They will set the circus on fire. Then what pandemonium! Let us hope it will not be to-morrow!

15 July 1915

ATHOUSAND years have passed away,Cast back your glances on the scene,Compare this England of to-dayWith England as she once has been.Fast beat the pulse of living then:The hum of movement, throb of war,The rushing mighty sound of menReverberated loud and far.They girt their loins up and they trodThe path of danger, rough and high;For Action, Action was their god,“Be up and doing” was their cry.A thousand years have passed away;The sands of life are running low;The world is sleeping out her day;The day is dying—be it so.A thousand years have passed amain;The sands of life are running thin;Thought is our leader—Thought is vain;Speech is our goddess—Speech is sin.

ATHOUSAND years have passed away,Cast back your glances on the scene,Compare this England of to-dayWith England as she once has been.

Fast beat the pulse of living then:The hum of movement, throb of war,The rushing mighty sound of menReverberated loud and far.

They girt their loins up and they trodThe path of danger, rough and high;For Action, Action was their god,“Be up and doing” was their cry.

A thousand years have passed away;The sands of life are running low;The world is sleeping out her day;The day is dying—be it so.

A thousand years have passed amain;The sands of life are running thin;Thought is our leader—Thought is vain;Speech is our goddess—Speech is sin.

It needs no thought to understand,No speech to tell, nor sight to seeThat there has come upon our landThe curse of Inactivity.We do not see the vital pointThat ’tis the eighth, most deadly, sinTo wail, “The world is out of joint”—And not attempt to put it in.We see the swollen stream of crimeFlow hourly past us, thick and wide;We gaze with interest for a time,And pass by on the other side.We see the tide of human sinRush roaring past our very door,And scarcely one man plunges inTo drag the drowning to the shore.We, dull and dreamy, stand and blink,Forgetting glory, strength and pride,Half—listless watchers on the brink,Half—ruined victims of the tide.

It needs no thought to understand,No speech to tell, nor sight to seeThat there has come upon our landThe curse of Inactivity.

We do not see the vital pointThat ’tis the eighth, most deadly, sinTo wail, “The world is out of joint”—And not attempt to put it in.

We see the swollen stream of crimeFlow hourly past us, thick and wide;We gaze with interest for a time,And pass by on the other side.

We see the tide of human sinRush roaring past our very door,And scarcely one man plunges inTo drag the drowning to the shore.

We, dull and dreamy, stand and blink,Forgetting glory, strength and pride,Half—listless watchers on the brink,Half—ruined victims of the tide.

We question, answer, make defence,We sneer, we scoff, we criticize,We wail and moan our decadence,Enquire, investigate, surmise;We preach and prattle, peer and pryAnd fit together two and two:We ponder, argue, shout, swear, lie—We will not, for we cannot, DO.Pale puny soldiers of the pen,Absorbed in this your inky strife,Act as of old, when men were menEngland herself and life yet life.

Pale puny soldiers of the pen,Absorbed in this your inky strife,Act as of old, when men were menEngland herself and life yet life.

October 1912

WHEN the rain is coming down,And all Court is still and bare,And the leaves fall wrinkled, brown,Through the kindly winter air,And in tattered flannels I‘Sweat’ beneath a tearful sky,And the sky is dim and grey,And the rain is coming down,And I wander far awayFrom the little red-capped town:There is something in the rainThat would bid me to remain:There is something in the windThat would whisper, “Leave behindAll this land of time and rules,Land of bells and early schools.Latin, Greek and College foodDo you precious little good.Leave them: if you would be freeFollow, follow, after me!”When I reach ‘Four Miler’s’ height,And I look abroad againOn the skies of dirty whiteAnd the drifting veil of rain,And the bunch of scattered hedgeDimly swaying on the edge,And the endless stretch of downsClad in green and silver gowns;There is something in their dressOf bleak barren ugliness,That would whisper, “You have readOf a land of light and glory:But believe not what is said.’Tis a kingdom bleak and hoary,Where the winds and tempests callAnd the rain sweeps over all.Heed not what the preachers sayOf a good land far away.Here’s a better land and kindAnd it is not far to find.”Therefore, when we rise and singOf a distant land, so fine,Where the bells for ever ring,And the suns for ever shine:Singing loud and singing grand,Of a happy far-off land,O! I smile to hear the song,For I know that they are wrong,That the happy land and gayIs not very far away,And that I can get there soonAny rainy afternoon.And when summer comes again,And the downs are dimpling green,And the air is free from rain,And the clouds no longer seen:Then I know that they have goneTo find a new camp further on,Where there is no shining sunTo throw light on what is done,Where the summer can’t intrudeOn the fort where winter stood:—Only blown and drenching grasses,Only rain that never passes,Moving mists and sweeping wind,And I follow them behind!

When I reach ‘Four Miler’s’ height,And I look abroad againOn the skies of dirty whiteAnd the drifting veil of rain,And the bunch of scattered hedgeDimly swaying on the edge,And the endless stretch of downsClad in green and silver gowns;There is something in their dressOf bleak barren ugliness,That would whisper, “You have readOf a land of light and glory:But believe not what is said.’Tis a kingdom bleak and hoary,Where the winds and tempests callAnd the rain sweeps over all.Heed not what the preachers sayOf a good land far away.Here’s a better land and kindAnd it is not far to find.”

Therefore, when we rise and singOf a distant land, so fine,Where the bells for ever ring,And the suns for ever shine:Singing loud and singing grand,Of a happy far-off land,O! I smile to hear the song,For I know that they are wrong,That the happy land and gayIs not very far away,And that I can get there soonAny rainy afternoon.

And when summer comes again,And the downs are dimpling green,And the air is free from rain,And the clouds no longer seen:Then I know that they have goneTo find a new camp further on,Where there is no shining sunTo throw light on what is done,Where the summer can’t intrudeOn the fort where winter stood:—Only blown and drenching grasses,Only rain that never passes,Moving mists and sweeping wind,And I follow them behind!

October 1912

HE does not dress as other men,His ‘kish’ is loud and gay,His ‘side’ is as the ‘side’ of tenBecause his ‘barnes’ are grey.His head has swollen to a sizeBeyond the proper size for heads,He metaphorically buysThe ground on which he treads.Before his face of haughty graceThe ordinary mortal cowers:A ‘forty-cap’ has put the chapInto another world from ours.The funny little world that lies’Twixt High Street and the MoundIs just a swarm of buzzing fliesThat aimlessly go round:If one is stronger in the limbOr better able to work hard,It’s quite amusing to watch himAscending heavenward.But if one cannot work or play(Who loves the better part too well),It’s really sad to see the ladRetained compulsorily in hell.

HE does not dress as other men,His ‘kish’ is loud and gay,His ‘side’ is as the ‘side’ of tenBecause his ‘barnes’ are grey.

His head has swollen to a sizeBeyond the proper size for heads,He metaphorically buysThe ground on which he treads.

Before his face of haughty graceThe ordinary mortal cowers:A ‘forty-cap’ has put the chapInto another world from ours.

The funny little world that lies’Twixt High Street and the MoundIs just a swarm of buzzing fliesThat aimlessly go round:

If one is stronger in the limbOr better able to work hard,It’s quite amusing to watch himAscending heavenward.

But if one cannot work or play(Who loves the better part too well),It’s really sad to see the ladRetained compulsorily in hell.

We are the wasters, who have noHope in this world here, neither fame,Because we cannot collar lowNor write a strange dead tongue the sameAs strange dead men did long ago.We are the weary, who beginThe race with joy, but early fail,Because we do not care to winA race that goes not to the frailAnd humble: only the proud come in.We are the shadow-forms, who passUnheeded hence from work and play.We are to-day, but like the grassThat to-day is, we pass away;And no one stops to say ‘Alas!’Though we have little, all we haveWe give our School. And no returnWe can expect for what we gave;No joys; only a summons stern,“Depart, for others entrance crave!”As soon as she can clearly proveThat from us is no hope of gain,Because we only bring her loveAnd cannot bring her strength or brain.She tells us, “Go: it is enough.”She turns us out at seventeen,We may not know her any more,And all our life with her has beenA life of seeing others score,While we sink lower and are mean.We have seen others reap successFull-measure. None has come to us.Our life has been one failure. Yes,But does not God prefer it thus?God does not also praise success.And for each failure that we meet,And for each place we drop behind,Each toil that holds our aching feet,Each star we seek and never find,God, knowing, gives us comfort meet.The School we care for has not caredTo cherish nor keep our names to beMemorials. God hath preparedSome better thing for us, for weHis hopes have known, His failures shared.

We are the wasters, who have noHope in this world here, neither fame,Because we cannot collar lowNor write a strange dead tongue the sameAs strange dead men did long ago.

We are the weary, who beginThe race with joy, but early fail,Because we do not care to winA race that goes not to the frailAnd humble: only the proud come in.

We are the shadow-forms, who passUnheeded hence from work and play.We are to-day, but like the grassThat to-day is, we pass away;And no one stops to say ‘Alas!’

Though we have little, all we haveWe give our School. And no returnWe can expect for what we gave;No joys; only a summons stern,“Depart, for others entrance crave!”

As soon as she can clearly proveThat from us is no hope of gain,Because we only bring her loveAnd cannot bring her strength or brain.She tells us, “Go: it is enough.”

She turns us out at seventeen,We may not know her any more,And all our life with her has beenA life of seeing others score,While we sink lower and are mean.

We have seen others reap successFull-measure. None has come to us.Our life has been one failure. Yes,But does not God prefer it thus?God does not also praise success.

And for each failure that we meet,And for each place we drop behind,Each toil that holds our aching feet,Each star we seek and never find,God, knowing, gives us comfort meet.

The School we care for has not caredTo cherish nor keep our names to beMemorials. God hath preparedSome better thing for us, for weHis hopes have known, His failures shared.

November 1912

THERE is silence in the evening when the long days cease,And a million men are praying for an ultimate releaseFrom strife and sweat and sorrow—they are praying for peace.But God is marching on.Peace for a people that is striving to be free!Peace for the children of the wild wet sea!Peace for the seekers of the promised land—do weWant peace when God has none?We pray for rest and beauty that we know we cannot earn,And ever are we asking for a honey-sweet return;But God will make it bitter, make it bitter, till we learnThat with tears the race is run.And did not Jesus perish to bring to men, not peace,But a sword, a sword for battle and a sword that should not cease?Two thousand years have passed us. Do we still want peaceWhere the sword of Christ has shone?Yes, Christ perished to present us with a sword,That strife should be our portion and more strife our reward,For toil and tribulation and the glory of the LordAnd the sword of Christ are one.If you want to know the beauty of the thing called rest,Go, get it from the poets, who will tell you it is best(And their words are sweet as honey) to lie flat upon your chestAnd sleep till life is gone.I know that there is beauty where the low streams run,And the weeping of the willows and the big sunk sun,But I know my work is doing and it never shall be done,Though I march for ages on.Wild is the tumult of the long grey street,O, is it never silent from the tramping of their feet?Here, Jesus, is Thy triumph, and here the world’s defeatFor from here all peace has gone.There’s a stranger thing than beauty in the ceaseless city’s breast,In the throbbing of its fever—and the wind is in the west,And the rain is driving forward where there is no rest,For the Lord is marching on.

THERE is silence in the evening when the long days cease,And a million men are praying for an ultimate releaseFrom strife and sweat and sorrow—they are praying for peace.But God is marching on.

Peace for a people that is striving to be free!Peace for the children of the wild wet sea!Peace for the seekers of the promised land—do weWant peace when God has none?

We pray for rest and beauty that we know we cannot earn,And ever are we asking for a honey-sweet return;But God will make it bitter, make it bitter, till we learnThat with tears the race is run.

And did not Jesus perish to bring to men, not peace,But a sword, a sword for battle and a sword that should not cease?Two thousand years have passed us. Do we still want peaceWhere the sword of Christ has shone?

Yes, Christ perished to present us with a sword,That strife should be our portion and more strife our reward,For toil and tribulation and the glory of the LordAnd the sword of Christ are one.

If you want to know the beauty of the thing called rest,Go, get it from the poets, who will tell you it is best(And their words are sweet as honey) to lie flat upon your chestAnd sleep till life is gone.

I know that there is beauty where the low streams run,And the weeping of the willows and the big sunk sun,But I know my work is doing and it never shall be done,Though I march for ages on.

Wild is the tumult of the long grey street,O, is it never silent from the tramping of their feet?Here, Jesus, is Thy triumph, and here the world’s defeatFor from here all peace has gone.

There’s a stranger thing than beauty in the ceaseless city’s breast,In the throbbing of its fever—and the wind is in the west,And the rain is driving forward where there is no rest,For the Lord is marching on.

December 1912

HE watched the river running blackBeneath the blacker sky;It did not pause upon its trackOf silent instancy.It did not hasten, nor was slack,But still went gliding by.It was so black. There was no windIts patience to defy.It was not that the man had sinned,Or that he wished to die.Only the wide and silent tideWent slowly sweeping by.The mass of blackness moving downFilled full of dreams the eye;The lights of all the lighted townUpon its breast did lie.The tall black trees were upside downIn the river’s phantasy.He had an envy for its blackInscrutability;He felt impatiently the lackOf that great law wherebyThe river never travels backBut still goes gliding by;But still goes gliding by, nor clingsTo passing things that die,Nor shows the secrets that it bringsFrom its strange source on high.And he felt “We are two living thingsAnd the weaker one is I.”He saw the town, that living stackPiled up against the sky.He saw the river running blackOn, on and on: O, whyCould he not move along his trackWith such consistency?He had a yearning for the strengthThat comes of unity:The union of one soul at lengthWith its twin-soul to lie;To be a part of one great strengthThat moves and cannot die.* * * * * *He watched the river running blackBeneath the blacker sky.He pulled his coat about his back,He did not strive nor cry.He put his foot upon the trackThat still went gliding byThe thing that never travels backReceived him silently.And there was left no shred, no wrackTo show the reason why:Only the river running blackBeneath the blacker sky.

HE watched the river running blackBeneath the blacker sky;It did not pause upon its trackOf silent instancy.It did not hasten, nor was slack,But still went gliding by.

It was so black. There was no windIts patience to defy.It was not that the man had sinned,Or that he wished to die.Only the wide and silent tideWent slowly sweeping by.

The mass of blackness moving downFilled full of dreams the eye;The lights of all the lighted townUpon its breast did lie.The tall black trees were upside downIn the river’s phantasy.

He had an envy for its blackInscrutability;He felt impatiently the lackOf that great law wherebyThe river never travels backBut still goes gliding by;

But still goes gliding by, nor clingsTo passing things that die,Nor shows the secrets that it bringsFrom its strange source on high.And he felt “We are two living thingsAnd the weaker one is I.”

He saw the town, that living stackPiled up against the sky.He saw the river running blackOn, on and on: O, whyCould he not move along his trackWith such consistency?

He had a yearning for the strengthThat comes of unity:The union of one soul at lengthWith its twin-soul to lie;To be a part of one great strengthThat moves and cannot die.* * * * * *He watched the river running blackBeneath the blacker sky.He pulled his coat about his back,He did not strive nor cry.He put his foot upon the trackThat still went gliding byThe thing that never travels backReceived him silently.And there was left no shred, no wrackTo show the reason why:Only the river running blackBeneath the blacker sky.

February 1913

THE gates are open on the roadThat leads to beauty and to God.Perhaps the gates are not so fair,Nor quite so bright as once they were,When God Himself on earth did standAnd gave to Abraham His handAnd led him to a better land.For lo! the unclean walk therein,And those that have been soiled with sin.The publican and harlot passAlong: they do not stain its grass.In it the needy has his share,In it the foolish do not err.Yes, spurned and fool and sinner strayAlong the highway and the way.And what if all its ways are trodBy those whom sin brings near to God?This journey soon will make them clean:Their faith is greater than their sin.For still they travel slowly byBeneath the promise of the sky,Scorned and rejected utterly;Unhonoured; things of little worthUpon the highroads of this earth;Afflicted, destitute and weak:Nor find the beauty that they seek,The God they set their trust upon:—Yet still they march rejoicing on.

THE gates are open on the roadThat leads to beauty and to God.

Perhaps the gates are not so fair,Nor quite so bright as once they were,When God Himself on earth did standAnd gave to Abraham His handAnd led him to a better land.

For lo! the unclean walk therein,And those that have been soiled with sin.The publican and harlot passAlong: they do not stain its grass.In it the needy has his share,In it the foolish do not err.Yes, spurned and fool and sinner strayAlong the highway and the way.

And what if all its ways are trodBy those whom sin brings near to God?This journey soon will make them clean:Their faith is greater than their sin.For still they travel slowly byBeneath the promise of the sky,Scorned and rejected utterly;Unhonoured; things of little worthUpon the highroads of this earth;Afflicted, destitute and weak:Nor find the beauty that they seek,The God they set their trust upon:—Yet still they march rejoicing on.

March 1913

Back to Index Next