So fast in fire the great boat beats the seas.But slowly fade, soft Island! Ah to knowThy town and who the gossips of thy town,What flowers flash in thy meadows, what winds blowAcross thy mountain when the sun goes down.There is thy market, where the fisher throwsHis gleaming fish that gasp in the death-bright dawn:And there thy Prince's house, painted old rose,Beyond the olives, crowns its slope of lawn.And is thy Prince so rich that he displaysAt festal board the flesh of sheep and kine?Or dare he—summer days are long hot days—Load up with Asian snow his Coan wine?Behind a rock, thy harbour, whence a noiseOf tarry sponge-boats hammered lustily:And from that little rock thy naked boysLike burning arrows shower upon the sea.And there by the old Greek chapel—there beneathA thousand poppies that each sea-wind stirsAnd cyclamen, as honied and white as death,Dwell deep in earth the elder islanders.* * *Thy name I know not, Island, buthisnameI know, and why so proud thy mountain stands,And what thy happy secret, and Who cameDrawing his painted galley up thy sands.For my Gods—Trident Gods who deep and paleSwim in the Latmian Sound, have murmured thus:"To such an island came with a pompous sailOn his first voyage young Herodotus."Since then—tell me no tale how Romans built,Saracens plundered—or that bearded lordsRowed by to fight for Venice, and here spiltTheir blood across the bay that keeps their swords.That old Greek day was all thy history:For that did Ocean poise thee as a flower.Farewell: this boat attends not such as thee:Farewell: I was thy lover for an hour!Farewell! But I who call upon thy cavesAm far like thee,—like thee, unknown and poor.And yet my words are music as thy waves,And like thy rocks shall down through time endure.THE GOLDEN JOURNEY TO SAMARKANDPROLOGUEWe who with songs beguile your pilgrimageAnd swear that Beauty lives though lilies die,We Poets of the proud old lineageWho sing to find your hearts, we know not why,—What shall we tell you? Tales, marvellous talesOf ships and stars and isles where good men rest,Where nevermore the rose of sunset pales,And winds and shadows fall toward the West:And there the world's first huge white-bearded kingsIn dim glades sleeping, murmur in their sleep,And closer round their breasts the ivy clings,Cutting its pathway slow and red and deep.And how beguile you? Death has no reposeWarmer and deeper than that Orient sandWhich hides the beauty and bright faith of thoseWho made the Golden Journey to Samarkand.And now they wait and whiten peaceably,Those conquerors, those poets, those so fair:They know time comes, not only you and I,But the whole world shall whiten, here or there;When those long caravans that cross the plainWith dauntless feet and sound of silver bellsPut forth no more for glory or for gain,Take no more solace from the palm-girt wells,When the great markets by the sea shut fastAll that calm Sunday that goes on and on:When even lovers find their peace at last,And Earth is but a star, that once had shone.EPILOGUEAt the Gate of the Sun, Bagdad, in olden timeTHE MERCHANTS(together)Away, for we are ready to a man!Our camels sniff the evening and are glad.Lead on, O Master of the Caravan:Lead on the Merchant-Princes of Bagdad.THE CHIEF DRAPERHave we not Indian carpets dark as wine,Turbans and sashes, gowns and bows and veils,And broideries of intricate design,And printed hangings in enormous bales?THE CHIEF GROCERWe have rose-candy, we have spikenard,Mastic and terebinth and oil and spice,And such sweet jams meticulously jarredAs God's own Prophet eats in Paradise.THE PRINCIPAL JEWSAnd we have manuscripts in peacock stylesBy Ali of Damascus; we have swordsEngraved with storks and apes and crocodiles,And heavy beaten necklaces, for Lords.THE MASTER OF THE CARAVANBut you are nothing but a lot of Jews.THE PRINCIPAL JEWSSir, even dogs have daylight, and we pay.THE MASTER OF THE CARAVANBut who are ye in rags and rotten shoes,You dirty-bearded, blocking up the way?THE PILGRIMSWe are the Pilgrims, master; we shall goAlways a little further: it may beBeyond that last blue mountain barred with snow,Across that angry or that glimmering sea,White on a throne or guarded in a caveThere lives a prophet who can understandWhy men were born: but surely we are brave,Who make the Golden Journey to Samarkand.THE CHIEF MERCHANTWe gnaw the nail of hurry. Master, away!ONE OF THE WOMENO turn your eyes to where your children stand.Is not Bagdad the beautiful? O stay!THE MERCHANTS(in chorus)We take the Golden Road to Samarkand.AN OLD MANHave you not girls and garlands in your homes,Eunuchs and Syrian boys at your command?Seek not excess: God hateth him who roams!THE MERCHANTS(in chorus)We make the Golden Journey to Samarkand.A PILGRIM WITH A BEAUTIFUL VOICESweet to ride forth at evening from the wellsWhen shadows pass gigantic on the sand,And softly through the silence beat the bellsAlong the Golden Road to Samarkand.A MERCHANTWe travel not for trafficking alone:By hotter winds our fiery hearts are fanned:For lust of knowing what should not be knownWe make the Golden Journey to Samarkand.THE MASTER OF THE CARAVANOpen the gate, O watchman of the night!THE WATCHMANHo, travellers, I open. For what landLeave you the dim-moon city of delight?THE MERCHANTS(with a shout)We make the Golden Journey to Samarkand.[The Caravan passes through the gate]THE WATCHMAN(consoling the women)What would ye, ladies? It was ever thus.Men are unwise and curiously planned.A WOMANThey have their dreams, and do not think of us.VOICES OF THE CARAVAN(in the distance, singing)We make the Golden Journey to Samarkand.ROBIN FLOWERLA VIE CEREBRALEI am alone—alone;There is nothing—only I,And, when I will to die,All must be gone.Eternal thought in mePuts on the dress of timeAnd builds a stage to mimeIts listless tragedy.And in that dress of timeAnd on that stage of spaceI place, change, and replaceLife to a wilful rime.I summon at my whimAll things that are, that were:The high incredible air,Where stars—my creatures—swim.I dream, and from my mindThe dead, the living come;I build a marble Rome,I give it to the wind.Athens and BabylonI breathe upon the night,Troy towers for my delightAnd crumbles stone by stone.I change with white and greenThe seasons hour by hour;I think—it is a flower,Think—and the flower has been.Men, women, things, a streamThat wavers and flows by,A lonely dreamer, IBuild and cast down the dream.And one day weary grownOf all my brain has wrought,I shall destroy my thoughtAnd I and all be gone.THE PIPESWith the spring awaken other springs,Those swallows' wings are shadowed by other wingsAnd another thrush behind that glad bird sings.A multitude are the flowers, but multitudesBlossom and waver and breathe from forgotten woods,And in silent places an older silence broods.With the spring long-buried springs in my heart awaken,Time takes the years, but the springs he has not taken,My thoughts with a boy's wild thoughts are mixed and shaken.And here amid inland fields by the down's green shoulderI remember an ancient sea and mountains older,Older than all but time, skies sterner and colder.When the swift spring night on the sea and the mountains fellIn the hush of the solemn hills I remember wellThe far pipes calling and the tale they had to tell.Sad was the tale, ah! sad beyond all sayingThe lament of the lonely pipes in the evening playingLost in the glens, in the still, dark pines delaying.And now with returning spring I remember all,On southern fields those mountain shadows fall,Those wandering pipes in the downland evening call.SAY NOT THAT BEAUTYSay not that beauty is an idle thingAnd gathered lightly as a wayside flowerThat on the trembling verges of the springKnows but the sweet survival of an hour.For 'tis not so. Through dedicated daysAnd foiled adventure of deliberate nightsWe lose and find and stumble in the waysThat lead to the far confluence of delights.Not with the earthly eye and fleshly ear,But lifted far above mortality,We see at last the eternal hills, and hearThe sighing of the universal sea;And kneeling breathless in the holy placeWe know immortal Beauty face to face.JOHN FREEMANTHE WAKERSThe joyous morning ran and kissed the grassAnd drew his fingers through her sleeping hair,And cried, "Before thy flowers are well awakeRise, and the lingering darkness from thee shake."Before the daisy and the sorrel buyTheir brightness back from that close-folding night,Come, and the shadows from thy bosom shake,Awake from thy thick sleep, awake, awake!"Then the grass of that mounded meadow stirredAbove the Roman bones that may not stirThough joyous morning whispered, shouted, sang:The grass stirred as that happy music rang.O, what a wondrous rustling everywhere!The steady shadows shook and thinned and died,The shining grass flashed brightness back for brightness,And sleep was gone, and there was heavenly lightness.As if she had found wings, light as the wind,The grass flew, bent with the wind, from east to west,Chased by one wild grey cloud, and flashing allHer dews for happiness to hear morning call ...But even as I stepped out the brightness dimmed,I saw the fading edge of all delight.The sober morning waked the drowsy herds,And there was the old scolding of the birds.THE BODYWhen I had dreamed and dreamed what woman's beauty was,And how that beauty seen from unseen surely flowed,I turned and dreamed again, but sleeping now no more:My eyes shut and my mind with inward vision glowed."I did not think!" I cried, seeing that wavering shapeThat steadied and then wavered, as a cherry bough in JuneLifts and falls in the wind—each fruit a fruit of light;And then she stood as clear as an unclouded moon.As clear and still she stood, moonlike remotely near;I saw and heard her breathe, I years and years away.Her light streamed through the years, I saw her clear and still,Shape and spirit together mingling night with day.Water falling, falling with the curve of timeOver green-hued rock, then plunging to its poolFar, far below, a falling spear of light;Water falling golden from the sun but moonlike cool:Water has the curve of her shoulder and breast,Water falls as straight as her body rose,Water her brightness has from neck to still feet,Water crystal-cold as her cold body flows.But not water has the colour I saw when I dreamed,Nor water such strength has. I joyed to beholdHow the blood lit her body with lamps of fireAnd made the flesh glow that like water gleamed cold.A flame in her arms and in each finger flame,And flame in her bosom, flame above, below,The curve of climbing flame in her waist and her thighs;µFrom foot to head did flame into red flame flow.I knew how beauty seen from unseen must rise,How the body's joy for more than body's use was made.I knew then how the body is the body of the mind,And how the mind's own fire beneath the cool skin played.O shape that once to have seen is to see evermore,Falling stream that falls to the deeps of the mind,Fire that once lit burns while aught burns in the world,Foot to head a flame moving in the spirit's wind!If these eyes could see what these eyes have not seen—The inward vision clear—how should I look forKnowing that beauty's self rose visible in the worldOver age that darkens, and griefs that destroy?STONE TREESLast night a sword-light in the skyFlashed a swift terror on the dark.In that sharp light the fields did lieNaked and stone-like; each tree stoodLike a tranced woman, bound and stark.Far off the woodWith darkness ridged the riven dark.The cows astonished stared with fear,And sheep crept to the knees of cows,And conies to their burrows slid,And rooks were still in rigid boughs,And all things else were still or hid.From all the woodCame but the owl's hoot, ghostly, clear.In that cold trance the earth was heldIt seemed an age, or time was nought.Sure never from that stone-like fieldSprang golden corn, nor from those chillGray granite trees was music wrought.In all the woodEven the tall poplar hung stone still.It seemed an age, or time was none ...Slowly the earth heaved out of sleepAnd shivered, and the trees of stoneBent and sighed in the gusty wind,And rain swept as birds nocking sweep.Far off the woodRolled the slow thunders on the wind.From all the wood came no brave bird,No song broke through the close-fall'n night,Nor any sound from cowering herd:Only a dog's long lonely howlWhen from the window poured pale light.And from the woodThe hoot came ghostly of the owl.MORE THAN SWEETThe noisy fire,The drumming wind,The creaking trees,And all that humOf summer airAnd all the long inquietudeOf breaking seas—Sweet and delightful areIn loneliness.But more than theseThe quiet lightFrom the morn's sunAnd night's astonished moon,Falling gently upon breaking seas.Such quietnessAnother beauty is—Ah, and those starsSo gravely stillMore than light, than beauty pourUpon the strangenessOf the heart's breaking seas.WAKINGLying beneath a hundred seas of sleepWith all those heavy waves flowing over me,And I unconscious of the rolling nightUntil, slowly, from deep to lesser deepRisen, I felt the wandering seas no longer cover meBut only air and light ...It was a sleepSo dark and so bewilderingly deepThat only death's were deeper or completer,And none when I awoke stranger or sweeter.Awake, the strangeness still hung over meAs I with far-strayed senses stared at the light.I—and who was I?Saw—oh, with what unaccustomed eye!The room was strange and everything strangeLike a strange room entered by wild moonlight;And yet familiar as the light swept over meAnd I rose from the night.Strange—yet stranger I.And as one climbs from water up to landFumbling for weedy steps with foot and hand,So I for yesterdays whereon to climbTo this remote and new-struck isle of time.But I found not myself nor yesterday—Until, slowly, from deep to lesser deepRisen, I felt the seas no longer over meBut only air and light.Yes, like one clutching at a ring I heardThe household noises as they stirred,And holding fast I wondered, What were they?I felt a strange hand lying at my side,Limp and cool. I touched it and knew it mine.A murmur, and I remembered how the wind diedIn the near aspens. ThenStrange things were no more strange.I travelled among common thoughts again;And felt the new-forged links of that strong chainThat binds me to myself, and this to-dayTo yesterday. I heard it rattling nearWith a no more astonished ear.And I had lost the strangeness of that sleep,No more the long night rolled its great seas over me.—O, too anxious I!For in this press of things familiarI have lost all that clungRound me awaking of strangeness and such sweetness.Nothing now is strangeExcept the man that woke and then was I.THE CHAIRThe chair was madeBy hands long dead,Polished by many bodies sitting there,Until the wood-lines flowed as clean as waves.Mine sat restless there,Or propped to stareHugged the low kitchen with fond eyesOr tired eyes that looked at nothing at all.Or watched from the smoke riseThe flame's snake-eyes,Up the black-bearded chimney leap;Then on my shoulder my dull head would drop.And half asleepI heard her creep—Hernever-singing lips shut fast,Fearing to wake me by a careless breath.Then, at last,My lids upcast,Our eyes met, I smiled and she smiled,And I shut mine again and truly slept.Was I that childFretful, sick, wild?Was that you moving soft and softBetween the rooms if I but played at sleep?Or if I laughed,Talked, cried, or coughed,You smiled too, just perceptibly,Or your large kind brown eyes said, O poor boy!From the fireside ICould see the narrow skyThrough the barred heavy window panes,Could hear the sparrows quarrelling round thelilac;And hear the heavy rainsChoking in the roof-drains:—Else of the world I nothing heardOr nothing remember now. But most I lovedTo watch when you stirredBusily like a birdAt household doings; with hands flouredMixing a magic with your cakes and tarts.O into me, sick, froward,Yourself you poured;In all those days and weeks when ISat, slept, woke, whimpered, wondered and slept again.Now but a memoryTo bless and harry meRemains of you still swathed with care;Myself your chief care, sitting by the hearthPropped in the pillowed chair,Following you with tired stare,And my hand following the wood linesBy dead hands smoothed and followed many years.THE STARS IN THEIR COURSESAnd now, while the dark vast earth shakes and rocksIn this wild dream-like snare of mortal shocks,How look (I muse) those cold and solitary starsOn these magnificent, cruel wars?—Venus,that brushes with her shining lips(Surely!) the wakeful edge of the world and mocksWith hers its all ungentle wantonness?—Orthe large moon (pricked by the spars of shipsCreeping and creeping in their restlessness),The moon pouring strange light on things more strange,Looks she unheedfully on seas and landsTrembling with change and fear of counter-change?O, not earth trembles, but the stars, the stars!The sky is shaken and the cool air is quivering.I cannot look up to the crowded heightAnd see the fair stars trembling in their light,For thinking of the starlike spirits of menCrowding the earth and with great passion quivering:—Stars quenched in anger and hate, stars sick with pity.I cannot look up to the naked skiesBecause a sorrow on dark midnight lies,Death, on the living world of sense;Because on my own land a shadow liesThat may not rise;Because from bare grey hillside and rich cityStreams of uncomprehending sadness pour,Thwarting the eager spirit's pure intelligence...How look (I muse) those cold and solitary starsOn these magnificent, cruel wars?Stars trembled in broad heaven, faint with pity.An hour to dawn I looked. Beside the treesWet mist shaped other trees that branching rose,Covering the woods and putting out the stars.There was no murmur on the seas,No wind blew—only the wandering air that growsWith dawn, then murmurs, sighs,And dies.The mist climbed slowly, putting out the stars,And the earth trembled when the stars were gone;And moving strangely everywhere uponThe trembling earth, thickened the watery mist.And for a time the holy things are veiled.England's wise thoughts are swords; her quiet hoursAre trodden underfoot like wayside flowers,And every English heart is England's wholly.In starless nightA serious passion streams the heaven with light.A common beating is in the air—The heart of England throbbing everywhere.And all her roads are nerves of noble thought,And all her people's brain is but her brain;And all her history, less her shame,Is part of her requickened consciousness.Her courage rises clean again.Even in victory there hides defeat;The spirit's murdered though the body survives,Except the cause for which a people strivesBurn with no covetous, foul heat.Fights she against herself who infamously drawsThe sword against man's secret spiritual laws,But thou, England, because a bitter heelHath sought to bruise the brain, the sensitive will,The conscience of the world,For this, England, art risen, and shalt fightPurely through long profoundest night,Making their quarrel thine who are grieved like thee;And (if to thee the stars yield victory)Tempering their hate of the great foe that hurledVainly her strength against the conscience of the world.I looked again, or dreamed I looked, and sawThe stars again and all their peace again.The moving mist had gone, and shining stillThe moon went high and pale above the hill.Not now those lights were trembling in the vastWays of the nervy heaven, nor trembled earth:Profound and calm they gazed as the soft-shod hours passed.And with less fear (not with less awe,Remembering, England, all the blood and pain)How look, I cried, you stern and solitary starsOn these disastrous wars!August, 1914.SHADOWSThe shadow of the lantern on the wall,The lantern hanging from the twisted beam,The eye that sees the lantern, shadow and all.The crackle of the sinking fire in the grate,The far train, the slow echo in the coombe,The ear that hears fire, train and echo and all.The loveliness that is the secret shapeOf once-seen, sweet and oft-dreamed loveliness,The brain that builds shape, memory, dream and all ...A white moon stares Time's thinning fabric through,And makes substantial insubstantial seem,And shapes immortal mortal as a dream;And eye and brain flicker as shadows doRestlessly dancing on a cloudy wall.ROBERT GRAVESSTAR-TALK"Are you awake, Gemelli,This frosty night?""We'll be awake till reveille,Which is Sunrise," say the Gemelli,"It's no good trying to go to sleep:If there's wine to be got we'll drink it deep,But rest is hopeless to-night,But rest is hopeless to-night.""Are you cold too, poor Pleiads,This frosty night?""Yes, and so are the Hyads:See us cuddle and hug," say the Pleiads,"All six in a ring: it keeps us warm:We huddle together like birds in a storm:It's bitter weather to-night,It's bitter weather to-night.""What do you hunt, Orion,This starry night?""The Ram, the Bull and the LionAnd the Great Bear," says Orion,"With my starry quiver and beautiful beltI am trying to find a good thick peltTo warm my shoulders to-night,To warm my shoulders to-night.""Did you hear that, Great She-bear,This frosty night?""Yes, he's talking of strippingmebareOf my own big fur," says the She-bear."I'm afraid of the man and his terrible arrow:The thought of it chills my bones to the marrow,And the frost so cruel to-night!And the frost so cruel to-night!""How is your trade, Aquarius,This frosty night?""Complaints is many and variousAnd my feet are cold," says Aquarius,"There's Venus objects to Dolphin-scales,And Mars to Crab-spawn found in my pails,And the pump has frozen to-night,And the pump has frozen to-night."TO LUCASTA ON GOING TO THE WARS—FOR THE FOURTH TIMEIt doesn't matter what's the cause,What wrong they say we're righting,A curse for treaties, bonds and laws,When we're to do the fighting!And since we lads are proud and true,What else remains to do?Lucasta, when to France your manReturns his fourth time, hating war,Yet laughs as calmly as he canAnd flings an oath, but says no more,That is not courage, that's not fear—Lucastahe is Fusilier,And his pride sends him here.Let statesmen bluster, bark and brayAnd so decide who startedThis bloody war, and who's to payBut he must be stout-hearted,Must sit and stake with quiet breath,Playing at cards with Death.Don't plume yourself he fights for you;It is no courage, love or hateThat lets us do the things we do;It's pride that makes the heart so great;It is not anger, no, nor fear—Lucastahe's a Fusilier,And his pride keeps him here.NOT DEADWalking through trees to cool my heat and pain,I know that David's with me here again.All that is simple, happy, strong, he is.Caressingly I strokeRough bark of the friendly oak.A brook goes bubbling by: the voice is his.Turf burns with pleasant smoke;I laugh at chaffinch and at primroses.All that is simple, happy, strong, he is.Over the whole wood in a little whileBreaks his slow smile.IN THE WILDERNESSChrist of his gentlenessThirsting and hungering,Walked in the wilderness;Soft words of grace He spokeUnto lost desert-folkThat listened wondering.He heard the bittern's callFrom ruined palace wall,Answered them brotherly.He held communionWith the she-pelicanOf lonely piety.Basilisk, cockatrice,Flocked to His homilies,With mail of dread device,With monstrous barbed stings,With eager dragon-eyes;Great rats on leather wingsAnd poor blind broken things,Foul in their miseries.And ever with Him went,Of all His wanderingsComrade, with ragged coat,Gaunt ribs—poor innocent—Bleeding foot, burning throat,The guileless old scape-goat;For forty nights and daysFollowed in Jesus' ways,Sure guard behind Him kept,Tears like a lover wept.NEGLECTFUL EDWARDNancyEdward back from the Indian Sea,"What have you brought for Nancy?"Edward"A rope of pearls and a gold earring,And a bird of the East that will not sing.A carven tooth, a box with a key—"Nancy"God be praised you are back," says she,"Have you nothing more for your Nancy?"Edward"Long as I sailed the Indian SeaI gathered all for your fancy:Toys and silk and jewels I bring,And a bird of the East that will not sing:What more can you want, dear girl, from me?"Nancy"God be praised you are back," said she,"Have you nothing better for Nancy?"Edward"Safe and home from the Indian SeaAnd nothing to take your fancy?"Nancy"You can keep your pearls and your gold earring,And your bird of the East that will not sing,But, Ned, have younothingmore for meThan heathenish gew-gaw toys?" says she,"Have you nothing better for Nancy?"JULIAN GRENFELLBorn 1888Killed in Action 1915TO A BLACK GREYHOUNDShining black in the shining light,Inky black in the golden sun,Graceful as the swallow's flight,Light as swallow, winged one,Swift as driven hurricane,Double-sinewed stretch and spring,Muffled thud of flying feet—See the black dog galloping,Hear his wild foot-beat.See him lie when the day is dead,Black curves curled on the boarded floor.Sleepy eyes, my sleepy-head—Eyes that were aflame before.Gentle now, they burn no more;Gentle now and softly warm,With the fire that made them brightHidden—as when after stormSoftly falls the night.INTO BATTLEThe naked earth is warm with Spring,And with green grass and bursting treesLeans to the sun's gaze glorying,And quivers in the sunny breeze;And Life is Colour and Warmth and Light,And a striving evermore for these;And he is dead who will not fight;And who dies fighting has increase.The fighting man shall from the sunTake warmth, and life from the glowing earth;Speed with the light-foot winds to run,And with the trees to newer birth;And find, when fighting shall be done,Great rest, and fullness after dearth.All the bright company of HeavenHold him in their high comradeship,The Dog-Star and the Sisters Seven,Orion's Belt and sworded hip.The woodland trees that stand together,They stand to him each one a friend,They gently speak in the windy weather;They guide to valley and ridges' end.The kestrel hovering by day,And the little owls that call by night,Bid him be swift and keen as they,As keen of ear, as swift of sight.The blackbird sings to him, "Brother, brother,If this be the last song you shall singSing well, for you may not sing another;Brother, sing."In dreary, doubtful, waiting hours,Before the brazen frenzy starts,The horses show him nobler powers;O patient eyes, courageous heartsAnd when the burning moment breaks,And all things else are out of mind,And only Joy of Battle takesHim by the throat, and makes him blindThrough joy and blindness he shall know,Not caring much to know, that still,Nor lead nor steel shall reach him, soThat it be not the Destined Will.The thundering line of battle stands,And in the air Death moans and sings;But Day shall clasp him with strong hands,And Night shall fold him in soft wings.IVOR GURNEYTO THE POET BEFORE BATTLENow, youth, the hour of thy dread passion comes:Thy lovely things must all be laid away;And thou, as others, must face the riven dayUnstirred by rattle of the rolling drums,Or bugles' strident cry. When mere noise numbsThe sense of being, the fear-sick soul doth sway,Remember thy great craft's honour, that they may sayNothing in shame of poets. Then the crumbsOf praise the little versemen joyed to takeShall be forgotten: then they must know we are,For all our skill in words, equal in mightAnd strong of mettle as those we honoured; makeThe name of poet terrible in just war,And like a crown of honour upon the fight.SONG OF PAIN AND BEAUTYTo M. M. S.O may these days of pain,These wasted-seeming days,Somewhere reflower againWith scent and savour of praise,Draw out of memory all bitternessOf night with Thy sun's rays.And strengthen Thou in meThe love of men here found,And eager charity,That, out of difficult ground,Spring like flowers in barren deserts, orLike light, or a lovely sound.A simpler heart than mineMight have seen beauty clearWhen I could see no signOf Thee, but only fear.Strengthen me, make me to seeThy beauty alwaysIn every happening here.In Trenches, March1917.RALPH HODGSONEVEEve, with her basket, wasDeep in the bells and grass,Wading in bells and grassUp to her knees,Picking a dish of sweetBerries and plums to eat,Down in the bells and grassUnder the trees.Mute as a mouse in aCorner the cobra lay,Curled round a bough of theCinnamon tall......Now to get even andHumble proud heaven andNow was the moment orNever at all."Eva!" Each syllableLight as a flower fell,"Eva!" he whispered theWondering maid,Soft as a bubble sungOut of a linnet's lung,Soft and most silverly"Eva!" he said.Picture that orchard sprite,Eve, with her body white,Supple and smooth to herSlim finger tips,Wondering, listening,Eve with a berryHalf way to her lips.Oh had our simple EveSeen through the make-believe!Had she but known thePretender he was!