Springcomes soon to MaisemoreAnd spring comes sweet,With bird-songs and blue skies,On gay dancing feet;But she is such a shy ladyI fear we’ll never meet.Yet some day round a cornerWhere the hedge foams white,I’ll find Spring sleepingIn the young-crescent night,And seize her and make herYield all her delight.But yon’s a glad storyThat’s yet to be told.Here’s grey winter’s barenessAnd no-shadowed cold.O Spring, with your music,Your blue, green, and gold,Come shame his hard wisdomWith laughter and gold!
Springcomes soon to MaisemoreAnd spring comes sweet,With bird-songs and blue skies,On gay dancing feet;But she is such a shy ladyI fear we’ll never meet.Yet some day round a cornerWhere the hedge foams white,I’ll find Spring sleepingIn the young-crescent night,And seize her and make herYield all her delight.But yon’s a glad storyThat’s yet to be told.Here’s grey winter’s barenessAnd no-shadowed cold.O Spring, with your music,Your blue, green, and gold,Come shame his hard wisdomWith laughter and gold!
Springcomes soon to MaisemoreAnd spring comes sweet,With bird-songs and blue skies,On gay dancing feet;But she is such a shy ladyI fear we’ll never meet.
Yet some day round a cornerWhere the hedge foams white,I’ll find Spring sleepingIn the young-crescent night,And seize her and make herYield all her delight.
But yon’s a glad storyThat’s yet to be told.Here’s grey winter’s barenessAnd no-shadowed cold.O Spring, with your music,Your blue, green, and gold,Come shame his hard wisdomWith laughter and gold!
Silent, bathed in firelight, in dusky light and gloomThe boys squeeze together in the smoky dirty room,Crowded round the fireplace, a thing of bricks and tin,They watch the shifting embers till the good dreams enter in,That fill the low hovel with blossoms fresh with dew,And blue sky and white clouds that sail the clear air through.They talk of daffodillies and the bluebells’ skiey bed,Till silence thrills and murmurs at the things they have said.And yet, they have no skill of words, whose eyes glow so deep,They wait for night and silence and the strange power of sleep,To lift them and drift them like sea-birds over the seaWhere some day I shall walk again, and they walk with me.
Silent, bathed in firelight, in dusky light and gloomThe boys squeeze together in the smoky dirty room,Crowded round the fireplace, a thing of bricks and tin,They watch the shifting embers till the good dreams enter in,That fill the low hovel with blossoms fresh with dew,And blue sky and white clouds that sail the clear air through.They talk of daffodillies and the bluebells’ skiey bed,Till silence thrills and murmurs at the things they have said.And yet, they have no skill of words, whose eyes glow so deep,They wait for night and silence and the strange power of sleep,To lift them and drift them like sea-birds over the seaWhere some day I shall walk again, and they walk with me.
Silent, bathed in firelight, in dusky light and gloomThe boys squeeze together in the smoky dirty room,Crowded round the fireplace, a thing of bricks and tin,They watch the shifting embers till the good dreams enter in,
That fill the low hovel with blossoms fresh with dew,And blue sky and white clouds that sail the clear air through.They talk of daffodillies and the bluebells’ skiey bed,Till silence thrills and murmurs at the things they have said.
And yet, they have no skill of words, whose eyes glow so deep,They wait for night and silence and the strange power of sleep,To lift them and drift them like sea-birds over the seaWhere some day I shall walk again, and they walk with me.
Thecrowd of us were drinkingOne night at Riez Bailleul,The glasses were a-clinking,The estaminet was full;And loud with song and storyAnd blue with tales and smoke,—We spoke no word of glory,Nor mentioned “foreign yoke.”But yarns of girls in Blighty;Vain, jolly, ugly, fair,Standoffish, foolish, flighty—And O! that we were there!Where never thuds a “Minnie,”But Minnie smiles at youA-meeting in the spinney,With kisses not a few.And of an inn that JohnsonDoes keep; the “Rising Sun.”His friends him call Jack Johnson,He’s Gloster’s only one.And talk of poachers’ habits(But girls ever and again)Of killing weasels, rabbits,Stoats, pheasants, never men,Although we knew to-morrowMust take us to the line,In beer hid thought and sorrow,In ruddy and white wine.When all had finished drinking,Though still was clear each head,We said no word—went slinkingStraight homeward (?), into bed (?).O never lads were merrierNor straighter nor more fine,Though we were only “Terrier”And only, “Second Line.”O I may get to Blighty,Or hell, without a signOf all the love that filled me,Leave dumb the love that filled me,The flood of love that filled meFor these dear comrades of mine.
Thecrowd of us were drinkingOne night at Riez Bailleul,The glasses were a-clinking,The estaminet was full;And loud with song and storyAnd blue with tales and smoke,—We spoke no word of glory,Nor mentioned “foreign yoke.”But yarns of girls in Blighty;Vain, jolly, ugly, fair,Standoffish, foolish, flighty—And O! that we were there!Where never thuds a “Minnie,”But Minnie smiles at youA-meeting in the spinney,With kisses not a few.And of an inn that JohnsonDoes keep; the “Rising Sun.”His friends him call Jack Johnson,He’s Gloster’s only one.And talk of poachers’ habits(But girls ever and again)Of killing weasels, rabbits,Stoats, pheasants, never men,Although we knew to-morrowMust take us to the line,In beer hid thought and sorrow,In ruddy and white wine.When all had finished drinking,Though still was clear each head,We said no word—went slinkingStraight homeward (?), into bed (?).O never lads were merrierNor straighter nor more fine,Though we were only “Terrier”And only, “Second Line.”O I may get to Blighty,Or hell, without a signOf all the love that filled me,Leave dumb the love that filled me,The flood of love that filled meFor these dear comrades of mine.
Thecrowd of us were drinkingOne night at Riez Bailleul,The glasses were a-clinking,The estaminet was full;
And loud with song and storyAnd blue with tales and smoke,—We spoke no word of glory,Nor mentioned “foreign yoke.”
But yarns of girls in Blighty;Vain, jolly, ugly, fair,Standoffish, foolish, flighty—And O! that we were there!
Where never thuds a “Minnie,”But Minnie smiles at youA-meeting in the spinney,With kisses not a few.
And of an inn that JohnsonDoes keep; the “Rising Sun.”His friends him call Jack Johnson,He’s Gloster’s only one.
And talk of poachers’ habits(But girls ever and again)Of killing weasels, rabbits,Stoats, pheasants, never men,
Although we knew to-morrowMust take us to the line,In beer hid thought and sorrow,In ruddy and white wine.
When all had finished drinking,Though still was clear each head,We said no word—went slinkingStraight homeward (?), into bed (?).
O never lads were merrierNor straighter nor more fine,Though we were only “Terrier”And only, “Second Line.”
O I may get to Blighty,Or hell, without a signOf all the love that filled me,Leave dumb the love that filled me,The flood of love that filled meFor these dear comrades of mine.
Onlythe wandererKnows England’s graces,Or can anew see clearFamiliar faces.And who loves joy as heThat dwells in shadows?Do not forget me quite,O Severn meadows.
Onlythe wandererKnows England’s graces,Or can anew see clearFamiliar faces.And who loves joy as heThat dwells in shadows?Do not forget me quite,O Severn meadows.
Onlythe wandererKnows England’s graces,Or can anew see clearFamiliar faces.
And who loves joy as heThat dwells in shadows?Do not forget me quite,O Severn meadows.
AsI went up by OvillersIn mud and water cold to the knee,There went three jeering, fleering spectres,That walked abreast and talked of me.The first said, “Here’s a right brave soldierThat walks the dark unfearingly;Soon he’ll come back on a fine stretcher,And laughing for a nice Blighty.”The second, “Read his face, old comrade,No kind of lucky chance I see;One day he’ll freeze in mud to the marrow,Then look his last on Picardie.”Though bitter the word of these first twainCurses the third spat venomously;“He’ll stay untouched till the war’s last dawningThen live one hour of agony.”Liars the first two were. Behold meAt sloping arms by one—two—three;Waiting the time I shall discoverWhether the third spake verity.
AsI went up by OvillersIn mud and water cold to the knee,There went three jeering, fleering spectres,That walked abreast and talked of me.The first said, “Here’s a right brave soldierThat walks the dark unfearingly;Soon he’ll come back on a fine stretcher,And laughing for a nice Blighty.”The second, “Read his face, old comrade,No kind of lucky chance I see;One day he’ll freeze in mud to the marrow,Then look his last on Picardie.”Though bitter the word of these first twainCurses the third spat venomously;“He’ll stay untouched till the war’s last dawningThen live one hour of agony.”Liars the first two were. Behold meAt sloping arms by one—two—three;Waiting the time I shall discoverWhether the third spake verity.
AsI went up by OvillersIn mud and water cold to the knee,There went three jeering, fleering spectres,That walked abreast and talked of me.
The first said, “Here’s a right brave soldierThat walks the dark unfearingly;Soon he’ll come back on a fine stretcher,And laughing for a nice Blighty.”
The second, “Read his face, old comrade,No kind of lucky chance I see;One day he’ll freeze in mud to the marrow,Then look his last on Picardie.”
Though bitter the word of these first twainCurses the third spat venomously;“He’ll stay untouched till the war’s last dawningThen live one hour of agony.”
Liars the first two were. Behold meAt sloping arms by one—two—three;Waiting the time I shall discoverWhether the third spake verity.
Beautylies so deepOn all the fields,Nothing for the eyesBut blessing yields.Tall elms, greedy of light,Stand tip-toe. SeeThe last light linger inTheir tracery.The guns are dumb, are stillAll evil noises.The singing heart in peaceSoftly rejoices,Only unsatisfiedWith Beauty’s hungerAnd sacramental thirst—Nothing of anger.Mist wraiths haunt the pathAs daylight lessens,The stars grow clearer, andMy dead friend’s presence.
Beautylies so deepOn all the fields,Nothing for the eyesBut blessing yields.Tall elms, greedy of light,Stand tip-toe. SeeThe last light linger inTheir tracery.The guns are dumb, are stillAll evil noises.The singing heart in peaceSoftly rejoices,Only unsatisfiedWith Beauty’s hungerAnd sacramental thirst—Nothing of anger.Mist wraiths haunt the pathAs daylight lessens,The stars grow clearer, andMy dead friend’s presence.
Beautylies so deepOn all the fields,Nothing for the eyesBut blessing yields.
Tall elms, greedy of light,Stand tip-toe. SeeThe last light linger inTheir tracery.
The guns are dumb, are stillAll evil noises.The singing heart in peaceSoftly rejoices,
Only unsatisfiedWith Beauty’s hungerAnd sacramental thirst—Nothing of anger.
Mist wraiths haunt the pathAs daylight lessens,The stars grow clearer, andMy dead friend’s presence.
Howslow you move, old Time;Walk a bit faster!Old fool, I’m not your slave....Beauty’s my master!You hold me for a space....What are you, Time?A ghost, a thing of thought,An easy rhyme.Some day I shall again,For all your scheming,See Severn valley cloudsLike banners streaming.And walk in Cranham lanes,By Maisemore go....But, fool, decrepit Fool,You areSO SLOW!!!
Howslow you move, old Time;Walk a bit faster!Old fool, I’m not your slave....Beauty’s my master!You hold me for a space....What are you, Time?A ghost, a thing of thought,An easy rhyme.Some day I shall again,For all your scheming,See Severn valley cloudsLike banners streaming.And walk in Cranham lanes,By Maisemore go....But, fool, decrepit Fool,You areSO SLOW!!!
Howslow you move, old Time;Walk a bit faster!Old fool, I’m not your slave....Beauty’s my master!
You hold me for a space....What are you, Time?A ghost, a thing of thought,An easy rhyme.
Some day I shall again,For all your scheming,See Severn valley cloudsLike banners streaming.
And walk in Cranham lanes,By Maisemore go....But, fool, decrepit Fool,You areSO SLOW!!!
Whenwoods of home grow dark,I grow dark too.Images of strange powerFill me and thrill me that hour,Sombre of hue.The woods of DunsinaneI walk, and knowWhat storms did shake Macbeth,That brought on Duncan’s death,And his own woe.Strange whispers chill the bloodOf evil breath;Such rumours as did stirWitch and foul sorcererOn the lone heath.No power have these on me;I know too wellTheir weakness to condemn.Spring will exorcise themWith one bluebell.
Whenwoods of home grow dark,I grow dark too.Images of strange powerFill me and thrill me that hour,Sombre of hue.The woods of DunsinaneI walk, and knowWhat storms did shake Macbeth,That brought on Duncan’s death,And his own woe.Strange whispers chill the bloodOf evil breath;Such rumours as did stirWitch and foul sorcererOn the lone heath.No power have these on me;I know too wellTheir weakness to condemn.Spring will exorcise themWith one bluebell.
Whenwoods of home grow dark,I grow dark too.Images of strange powerFill me and thrill me that hour,Sombre of hue.
The woods of DunsinaneI walk, and knowWhat storms did shake Macbeth,That brought on Duncan’s death,And his own woe.
Strange whispers chill the bloodOf evil breath;Such rumours as did stirWitch and foul sorcererOn the lone heath.
No power have these on me;I know too wellTheir weakness to condemn.Spring will exorcise themWith one bluebell.
[ToF. W. Harvey]
Outof the smoke and dust of the little roomWith tea-talk loud and laughter of happy boys,I passed into the dusk. Suddenly the noiseCeased with a shock, left me alone in the gloom,To wonder at the miracle hanging highTangled in twigs, the silver crescent clear.—Time passed from mind. Time died; and then we wereOnce more at home together, you and I.The elms with arms of love wrapped us in shadeWho watched the ecstatic West with one desire,One soul uprapt; and still another fireConsumed us, and our joy yet greater made:That Bach should sing for us, mix us in oneThe joy of firelight and the sunken sun.
Outof the smoke and dust of the little roomWith tea-talk loud and laughter of happy boys,I passed into the dusk. Suddenly the noiseCeased with a shock, left me alone in the gloom,To wonder at the miracle hanging highTangled in twigs, the silver crescent clear.—Time passed from mind. Time died; and then we wereOnce more at home together, you and I.The elms with arms of love wrapped us in shadeWho watched the ecstatic West with one desire,One soul uprapt; and still another fireConsumed us, and our joy yet greater made:That Bach should sing for us, mix us in oneThe joy of firelight and the sunken sun.
Outof the smoke and dust of the little roomWith tea-talk loud and laughter of happy boys,I passed into the dusk. Suddenly the noiseCeased with a shock, left me alone in the gloom,To wonder at the miracle hanging highTangled in twigs, the silver crescent clear.—Time passed from mind. Time died; and then we wereOnce more at home together, you and I.
The elms with arms of love wrapped us in shadeWho watched the ecstatic West with one desire,One soul uprapt; and still another fireConsumed us, and our joy yet greater made:That Bach should sing for us, mix us in oneThe joy of firelight and the sunken sun.
Thedestined bullet wounded him,They brought him down to die,Far-off a bugle sounded him“Retreat,” Good-bye.Strange, that from ways so hated,And tyranny so hardShould come this strangely fatedAnd farewell word.He thought, “Some Old Sweat mightHave thrilled at heart to hear,Gone down into the nightToo proud to fear!But I—the fool at arms,Musician, poet to boot,Who hail release; what charmsIn this salute?”He smiled—“The latest jestThat time on me shall play.”And watched the dying west,Went out with the day.
Thedestined bullet wounded him,They brought him down to die,Far-off a bugle sounded him“Retreat,” Good-bye.Strange, that from ways so hated,And tyranny so hardShould come this strangely fatedAnd farewell word.He thought, “Some Old Sweat mightHave thrilled at heart to hear,Gone down into the nightToo proud to fear!But I—the fool at arms,Musician, poet to boot,Who hail release; what charmsIn this salute?”He smiled—“The latest jestThat time on me shall play.”And watched the dying west,Went out with the day.
Thedestined bullet wounded him,They brought him down to die,Far-off a bugle sounded him“Retreat,” Good-bye.
Strange, that from ways so hated,And tyranny so hardShould come this strangely fatedAnd farewell word.
He thought, “Some Old Sweat mightHave thrilled at heart to hear,Gone down into the nightToo proud to fear!
But I—the fool at arms,Musician, poet to boot,Who hail release; what charmsIn this salute?”
He smiled—“The latest jestThat time on me shall play.”And watched the dying west,Went out with the day.
O friends of mine, if men mock at my name,Say “Children loved him.”Since by that word you will have far removed himFrom any bitter shame.
O friends of mine, if men mock at my name,Say “Children loved him.”Since by that word you will have far removed himFrom any bitter shame.
O friends of mine, if men mock at my name,Say “Children loved him.”Since by that word you will have far removed himFrom any bitter shame.
I cannotlive with Beauty out of mind;I seek her and desire her all the day,Being the chiefest treasure man may find,And word most sweet his eager lips can say.She is as strong on me as though I wanderedIn Severn meadows some blue riotous day.But since the trees have long since lost their green,And I, an exile, can but dream of thingsGrown magic in the mind, I watch the sheenOf frost and hear the song Orion sings,And hear the star-born passion of Beethoven;Man’s consolations sung on the quivering strings.Beauty of song remembered, sunset glories,Mix in my mind, till I not care nor knowWhether the stars do move me, golden stories,Or ruddy Cotswold in the sunset glow.I am uprapt, and not my own, immortal, ...In winds of Beauty swinging to and fro.Beauty immortal, not to be hid, desireOf all men, each in his fashion, give me the strongThirst past satisfaction for thee, and fireNot to be quenched.... O lift me, bear me along,Touch me, make me worthy that men may seek meFor Beauty, Mistress Immortal, Healer of Wrong.
I cannotlive with Beauty out of mind;I seek her and desire her all the day,Being the chiefest treasure man may find,And word most sweet his eager lips can say.She is as strong on me as though I wanderedIn Severn meadows some blue riotous day.But since the trees have long since lost their green,And I, an exile, can but dream of thingsGrown magic in the mind, I watch the sheenOf frost and hear the song Orion sings,And hear the star-born passion of Beethoven;Man’s consolations sung on the quivering strings.Beauty of song remembered, sunset glories,Mix in my mind, till I not care nor knowWhether the stars do move me, golden stories,Or ruddy Cotswold in the sunset glow.I am uprapt, and not my own, immortal, ...In winds of Beauty swinging to and fro.Beauty immortal, not to be hid, desireOf all men, each in his fashion, give me the strongThirst past satisfaction for thee, and fireNot to be quenched.... O lift me, bear me along,Touch me, make me worthy that men may seek meFor Beauty, Mistress Immortal, Healer of Wrong.
I cannotlive with Beauty out of mind;I seek her and desire her all the day,Being the chiefest treasure man may find,And word most sweet his eager lips can say.She is as strong on me as though I wanderedIn Severn meadows some blue riotous day.
But since the trees have long since lost their green,And I, an exile, can but dream of thingsGrown magic in the mind, I watch the sheenOf frost and hear the song Orion sings,And hear the star-born passion of Beethoven;Man’s consolations sung on the quivering strings.
Beauty of song remembered, sunset glories,Mix in my mind, till I not care nor knowWhether the stars do move me, golden stories,Or ruddy Cotswold in the sunset glow.I am uprapt, and not my own, immortal, ...In winds of Beauty swinging to and fro.
Beauty immortal, not to be hid, desireOf all men, each in his fashion, give me the strongThirst past satisfaction for thee, and fireNot to be quenched.... O lift me, bear me along,Touch me, make me worthy that men may seek meFor Beauty, Mistress Immortal, Healer of Wrong.
[ToM. M. S.]
O maythese 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 clearWhere I could see no signOf Thee, but only fear.Strengthen me, make me to see Thy beauty alwaysIn every happening here.
O maythese 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 clearWhere I could see no signOf Thee, but only fear.Strengthen me, make me to see Thy beauty alwaysIn every happening here.
O maythese 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 clearWhere I could see no signOf Thee, but only fear.Strengthen me, make me to see Thy beauty alwaysIn every happening here.
In Trenches,March 1917.
I amdumb, I am dumb!And here’s a Norman orchard and here’s SpringGoading the sullen words that will not come.Romance, beating his distant magical drum,Calls to a soldier bearing alien arms,“Throw off your yoke and hear my darlings sing,Blackbirds” (by red-roofed farms)“More drunk than any poet with May’s delight,Green alive to the eye, and pink and white.”Joy’s there, but not for me;And song, but shall I singThat live as in a dream of some bad night,Whose memories are of such ecstasyAnd height of passionate joy, that pain aloneIs born of beauty in cloud and flower and tree;Yes, and the great Cathedral’s towering stone.To me these are but shadowsOf orchards and old meadowsTrodden before the dawn,Trodden after the dusk....All loveliness of France is as a husk,The inner living spirit of beauty gone,To that familiar beauty now withdrawnFrom exiles hungering ever for the sightOf her day-face;England’s;Or in some orchard spaceBreathless to drink peace from her calm night.How shall I sing, since she sings not to meSongs any more?High rule she holds for ever on the seaThat’s hers, but dreams too might guard the shoreOf France, that’s French and set apart for ever.A Spirit of Love our link of song does sever.Had it been hate(The weakest of all sworn enemies of Love)We should have broken through or passed aboveIts foolish barriers;Here we must bow as to established Fate,And reverently; for, comrades and high peers,Sisters in blood,Our mothers brook no rival in their stateOf motherhood.But not for ever shall our travail last,And not for ever weBe held by iron Duty over sea.The image of evil shall be overcast,And all his willing slaves and priests of evilScattered like dust, shall lie upon the plain;That image, ground to dust utterly levelWith unregarded weeds and all as vain.The oppressed shall lift their hearts up once again,And we return....Not to scarred lands and homes laid in the dust,Not with hard hearts to sights that sear and burn,But with assured longing and certain trust,To England’s royal grace and dignity,To England’s changing skies, rich greenery,High strength controlled, queenly serenity,Inviolate kept by her confederate seaAnd hearts resolved to every sacrifice.We shall come home,We shall come home again,Living and dead, one huge victorious host—The dead that would not leave their comrades tillThe last steep were topped of the difficult hill,The last farthing paid of the Great Cost,The last thrill suffered of the Great Pain.Living and dead, we shall come home at lastTo her sweet breast,England’s; by one touch be paid in fullFor all things grey and long and terribleOf that dread night which seemed eternity.O Mother, shall thy kisses not restoreBody and life-sick soul? Yes, and set freeSongs and great floods of lovelier melodyThan thou didst giveWhen we those days of half-awake did live.And joy must surely flower again more fairTo us, who dwelt in shadows and foul air.We’ll breathe and drink in song.Spring shall blot out all traces of old care;Her clouds of green and waves of gold amongWe shall grow free of heart, and great, and young—Be made anew in that Great Resurrection,Perfect as is the violet’s perfection.Perfect as sheWho sanctifies our memory with sorrow,Hugs, as a mother hugs, the thoughts that harrow,Watching for dawn, hungering for the morrowLone oversea....I am dumb now, dumb,But in that time what music shall not come?Mother of Beauty, Mistress of the Sea.
I amdumb, I am dumb!And here’s a Norman orchard and here’s SpringGoading the sullen words that will not come.Romance, beating his distant magical drum,Calls to a soldier bearing alien arms,“Throw off your yoke and hear my darlings sing,Blackbirds” (by red-roofed farms)“More drunk than any poet with May’s delight,Green alive to the eye, and pink and white.”Joy’s there, but not for me;And song, but shall I singThat live as in a dream of some bad night,Whose memories are of such ecstasyAnd height of passionate joy, that pain aloneIs born of beauty in cloud and flower and tree;Yes, and the great Cathedral’s towering stone.To me these are but shadowsOf orchards and old meadowsTrodden before the dawn,Trodden after the dusk....All loveliness of France is as a husk,The inner living spirit of beauty gone,To that familiar beauty now withdrawnFrom exiles hungering ever for the sightOf her day-face;England’s;Or in some orchard spaceBreathless to drink peace from her calm night.How shall I sing, since she sings not to meSongs any more?High rule she holds for ever on the seaThat’s hers, but dreams too might guard the shoreOf France, that’s French and set apart for ever.A Spirit of Love our link of song does sever.Had it been hate(The weakest of all sworn enemies of Love)We should have broken through or passed aboveIts foolish barriers;Here we must bow as to established Fate,And reverently; for, comrades and high peers,Sisters in blood,Our mothers brook no rival in their stateOf motherhood.But not for ever shall our travail last,And not for ever weBe held by iron Duty over sea.The image of evil shall be overcast,And all his willing slaves and priests of evilScattered like dust, shall lie upon the plain;That image, ground to dust utterly levelWith unregarded weeds and all as vain.The oppressed shall lift their hearts up once again,And we return....Not to scarred lands and homes laid in the dust,Not with hard hearts to sights that sear and burn,But with assured longing and certain trust,To England’s royal grace and dignity,To England’s changing skies, rich greenery,High strength controlled, queenly serenity,Inviolate kept by her confederate seaAnd hearts resolved to every sacrifice.We shall come home,We shall come home again,Living and dead, one huge victorious host—The dead that would not leave their comrades tillThe last steep were topped of the difficult hill,The last farthing paid of the Great Cost,The last thrill suffered of the Great Pain.Living and dead, we shall come home at lastTo her sweet breast,England’s; by one touch be paid in fullFor all things grey and long and terribleOf that dread night which seemed eternity.O Mother, shall thy kisses not restoreBody and life-sick soul? Yes, and set freeSongs and great floods of lovelier melodyThan thou didst giveWhen we those days of half-awake did live.And joy must surely flower again more fairTo us, who dwelt in shadows and foul air.We’ll breathe and drink in song.Spring shall blot out all traces of old care;Her clouds of green and waves of gold amongWe shall grow free of heart, and great, and young—Be made anew in that Great Resurrection,Perfect as is the violet’s perfection.Perfect as sheWho sanctifies our memory with sorrow,Hugs, as a mother hugs, the thoughts that harrow,Watching for dawn, hungering for the morrowLone oversea....I am dumb now, dumb,But in that time what music shall not come?Mother of Beauty, Mistress of the Sea.
I amdumb, I am dumb!And here’s a Norman orchard and here’s SpringGoading the sullen words that will not come.Romance, beating his distant magical drum,Calls to a soldier bearing alien arms,“Throw off your yoke and hear my darlings sing,Blackbirds” (by red-roofed farms)“More drunk than any poet with May’s delight,Green alive to the eye, and pink and white.”
Joy’s there, but not for me;And song, but shall I singThat live as in a dream of some bad night,Whose memories are of such ecstasyAnd height of passionate joy, that pain aloneIs born of beauty in cloud and flower and tree;Yes, and the great Cathedral’s towering stone.
To me these are but shadowsOf orchards and old meadowsTrodden before the dawn,Trodden after the dusk....All loveliness of France is as a husk,The inner living spirit of beauty gone,To that familiar beauty now withdrawnFrom exiles hungering ever for the sightOf her day-face;England’s;Or in some orchard spaceBreathless to drink peace from her calm night.
How shall I sing, since she sings not to meSongs any more?High rule she holds for ever on the seaThat’s hers, but dreams too might guard the shoreOf France, that’s French and set apart for ever.A Spirit of Love our link of song does sever.Had it been hate(The weakest of all sworn enemies of Love)We should have broken through or passed aboveIts foolish barriers;Here we must bow as to established Fate,And reverently; for, comrades and high peers,Sisters in blood,Our mothers brook no rival in their stateOf motherhood.
But not for ever shall our travail last,And not for ever weBe held by iron Duty over sea.The image of evil shall be overcast,And all his willing slaves and priests of evilScattered like dust, shall lie upon the plain;That image, ground to dust utterly levelWith unregarded weeds and all as vain.The oppressed shall lift their hearts up once again,And we return....Not to scarred lands and homes laid in the dust,Not with hard hearts to sights that sear and burn,But with assured longing and certain trust,To England’s royal grace and dignity,To England’s changing skies, rich greenery,High strength controlled, queenly serenity,Inviolate kept by her confederate seaAnd hearts resolved to every sacrifice.We shall come home,We shall come home again,Living and dead, one huge victorious host—The dead that would not leave their comrades tillThe last steep were topped of the difficult hill,The last farthing paid of the Great Cost,The last thrill suffered of the Great Pain.Living and dead, we shall come home at lastTo her sweet breast,England’s; by one touch be paid in fullFor all things grey and long and terribleOf that dread night which seemed eternity.
O Mother, shall thy kisses not restoreBody and life-sick soul? Yes, and set freeSongs and great floods of lovelier melodyThan thou didst giveWhen we those days of half-awake did live.And joy must surely flower again more fairTo us, who dwelt in shadows and foul air.We’ll breathe and drink in song.
Spring shall blot out all traces of old care;Her clouds of green and waves of gold amongWe shall grow free of heart, and great, and young—Be made anew in that Great Resurrection,Perfect as is the violet’s perfection.Perfect as sheWho sanctifies our memory with sorrow,Hugs, as a mother hugs, the thoughts that harrow,Watching for dawn, hungering for the morrowLone oversea....
I am dumb now, dumb,But in that time what music shall not come?Mother of Beauty, Mistress of the Sea.
Whenthe sun’s fire and goldSets the bee humming,I will not write to tellHim that I’m coming,But ride out unawaresOn that old road,Of Minsterworth, of Peace,Of Framilode,And walk, not looked for, inThat cool, dark passage.Never a single word;Myself my message.And then; well ... O we’ll driftAnd stand and gaze,And wonder how we couldIn those Bad DaysLive without Minsterworth;Or western airFanning the hot cheek,Stirring the hair;In land where hate of menGod’s love did cover;This land.... And here’s my dreamIrrevocably over.
Whenthe sun’s fire and goldSets the bee humming,I will not write to tellHim that I’m coming,But ride out unawaresOn that old road,Of Minsterworth, of Peace,Of Framilode,And walk, not looked for, inThat cool, dark passage.Never a single word;Myself my message.And then; well ... O we’ll driftAnd stand and gaze,And wonder how we couldIn those Bad DaysLive without Minsterworth;Or western airFanning the hot cheek,Stirring the hair;In land where hate of menGod’s love did cover;This land.... And here’s my dreamIrrevocably over.
Whenthe sun’s fire and goldSets the bee humming,I will not write to tellHim that I’m coming,
But ride out unawaresOn that old road,Of Minsterworth, of Peace,Of Framilode,
And walk, not looked for, inThat cool, dark passage.Never a single word;Myself my message.
And then; well ... O we’ll driftAnd stand and gaze,And wonder how we couldIn those Bad Days
Live without Minsterworth;Or western airFanning the hot cheek,Stirring the hair;In land where hate of menGod’s love did cover;This land.... And here’s my dreamIrrevocably over.
Hark, hark, the lark to heaven’s gate uprisen,Pours out his joy ...I think of you, shut in some distant prison,O Boy, poor Boy;Your heart grown sick with hope deferred and shadowsOf prison ways;Not daring to snatch a thought of Severn meadows,Or old blue-days.
Hark, hark, the lark to heaven’s gate uprisen,Pours out his joy ...I think of you, shut in some distant prison,O Boy, poor Boy;Your heart grown sick with hope deferred and shadowsOf prison ways;Not daring to snatch a thought of Severn meadows,Or old blue-days.
Hark, hark, the lark to heaven’s gate uprisen,Pours out his joy ...I think of you, shut in some distant prison,O Boy, poor Boy;
Your heart grown sick with hope deferred and shadowsOf prison ways;Not daring to snatch a thought of Severn meadows,Or old blue-days.
Praisefor the day’s magnificent uprising!Praise for the coolAir and the blue new-old ever-surprisingFace of the sky, and mirrored blue of the pool.Only the fool, bat-witted, owl-eyed foolCan hold a deaf ear while life beginsThe actual opening of a myriad stories....Blindness, ingratitude, the foolishest sins!Now if this day blot out my chief desires,And leave me maimed and blind and full of hotSurges of insurrection, evil fires,Memories of joys that seem better forgot;Quiet me then.Thy Will is binding on the nearest flowerAs on the farthest star; and what shall put meOut of Thy power, or from Thy guidance far,Though I in hell of my self-will would shut me?But if Thy Will be joy for me to-day,Give me clear eyes, a heart open to feelThy influence, Thy kindness: O unsealThe shut, the hidden places in me, revealThose things most precious secretly hidden awayFrom all save children and the simply wise.Give me clear eyes!And strength to know, whatever may befall,The eternal presence of great mysteries,Glorifying Thee for all.
Praisefor the day’s magnificent uprising!Praise for the coolAir and the blue new-old ever-surprisingFace of the sky, and mirrored blue of the pool.Only the fool, bat-witted, owl-eyed foolCan hold a deaf ear while life beginsThe actual opening of a myriad stories....Blindness, ingratitude, the foolishest sins!Now if this day blot out my chief desires,And leave me maimed and blind and full of hotSurges of insurrection, evil fires,Memories of joys that seem better forgot;Quiet me then.Thy Will is binding on the nearest flowerAs on the farthest star; and what shall put meOut of Thy power, or from Thy guidance far,Though I in hell of my self-will would shut me?But if Thy Will be joy for me to-day,Give me clear eyes, a heart open to feelThy influence, Thy kindness: O unsealThe shut, the hidden places in me, revealThose things most precious secretly hidden awayFrom all save children and the simply wise.Give me clear eyes!And strength to know, whatever may befall,The eternal presence of great mysteries,Glorifying Thee for all.
Praisefor the day’s magnificent uprising!Praise for the coolAir and the blue new-old ever-surprisingFace of the sky, and mirrored blue of the pool.Only the fool, bat-witted, owl-eyed foolCan hold a deaf ear while life beginsThe actual opening of a myriad stories....Blindness, ingratitude, the foolishest sins!Now if this day blot out my chief desires,And leave me maimed and blind and full of hotSurges of insurrection, evil fires,Memories of joys that seem better forgot;Quiet me then.Thy Will is binding on the nearest flowerAs on the farthest star; and what shall put meOut of Thy power, or from Thy guidance far,Though I in hell of my self-will would shut me?But if Thy Will be joy for me to-day,Give me clear eyes, a heart open to feelThy influence, Thy kindness: O unsealThe shut, the hidden places in me, revealThose things most precious secretly hidden awayFrom all save children and the simply wise.Give me clear eyes!And strength to know, whatever may befall,The eternal presence of great mysteries,Glorifying Thee for all.
(“You cannot think how ghastly these battle-fields look under a grey sky. Torn trees are the most terrible things I have ever seen. Absolute blight and curse is on the face of everything.”)
(“You cannot think how ghastly these battle-fields look under a grey sky. Torn trees are the most terrible things I have ever seen. Absolute blight and curse is on the face of everything.”)
Thedead land oppressed me;I turned my thoughts away,And went where hill and meadowAre shadowless and gay.Where Coopers stands by Cranham,Where the hill-gashes whiteShow golden in the sunshine,Our sunshine—God’s delight.Beauty my feet stayed at lastWhere green was most cool,Trees worthy of all worshipI worshipped ... then, O fool,Let my thoughts slide unwittingTo other, dreadful trees, ...And found me standing, staringSick of heart—at these!
Thedead land oppressed me;I turned my thoughts away,And went where hill and meadowAre shadowless and gay.Where Coopers stands by Cranham,Where the hill-gashes whiteShow golden in the sunshine,Our sunshine—God’s delight.Beauty my feet stayed at lastWhere green was most cool,Trees worthy of all worshipI worshipped ... then, O fool,Let my thoughts slide unwittingTo other, dreadful trees, ...And found me standing, staringSick of heart—at these!
Thedead land oppressed me;I turned my thoughts away,And went where hill and meadowAre shadowless and gay.
Where Coopers stands by Cranham,Where the hill-gashes whiteShow golden in the sunshine,Our sunshine—God’s delight.
Beauty my feet stayed at lastWhere green was most cool,Trees worthy of all worshipI worshipped ... then, O fool,
Let my thoughts slide unwittingTo other, dreadful trees, ...And found me standing, staringSick of heart—at these!
Pourout your light, O stars, and do not holdYour loveliest shining from earth’s outworn shell—Pure and cold your radiance, pure and coldMy dead friend’s face as well.
Pourout your light, O stars, and do not holdYour loveliest shining from earth’s outworn shell—Pure and cold your radiance, pure and coldMy dead friend’s face as well.
Pourout your light, O stars, and do not holdYour loveliest shining from earth’s outworn shell—Pure and cold your radiance, pure and coldMy dead friend’s face as well.
Norgrief nor tears should wrong the silent deadSave England’s, for her children fallen so farFrom her eager care; though by God’s justice ledAnd fallen in such a war.
Norgrief nor tears should wrong the silent deadSave England’s, for her children fallen so farFrom her eager care; though by God’s justice ledAnd fallen in such a war.
Norgrief nor tears should wrong the silent deadSave England’s, for her children fallen so farFrom her eager care; though by God’s justice ledAnd fallen in such a war.
Pourout your bounty, moon of radiant shiningOn all this shattered flesh, these quiet forms;For these were slain, so strangely still reclining,In the noblest cause was ever waged with arms.
Pourout your bounty, moon of radiant shiningOn all this shattered flesh, these quiet forms;For these were slain, so strangely still reclining,In the noblest cause was ever waged with arms.
Pourout your bounty, moon of radiant shiningOn all this shattered flesh, these quiet forms;For these were slain, so strangely still reclining,In the noblest cause was ever waged with arms.
[Tothe Memory of Rupert Brooke]
Thoughheaven be packed with joy-bewilderingPleasures of soul and heart and mind, yet whoWould willingly let slip, freely let goEarth’s mortal loveliness; go wanderingWhere never the late bird is heard to sing,Nor full-sailed cloud-galleons wander slow;No pathways in the woods; no afterglow,When the air’s fire and magic with sense of spring?So the dark horror clouds us, and the dreadOf the unknown.... But if it must be, thenWhat better passing than to go out like menFor England, giving all in one white glow?Whose bodies shall lie in earth as on a bed,And as the Will directs our spirits may go
Thoughheaven be packed with joy-bewilderingPleasures of soul and heart and mind, yet whoWould willingly let slip, freely let goEarth’s mortal loveliness; go wanderingWhere never the late bird is heard to sing,Nor full-sailed cloud-galleons wander slow;No pathways in the woods; no afterglow,When the air’s fire and magic with sense of spring?So the dark horror clouds us, and the dreadOf the unknown.... But if it must be, thenWhat better passing than to go out like menFor England, giving all in one white glow?Whose bodies shall lie in earth as on a bed,And as the Will directs our spirits may go
Thoughheaven be packed with joy-bewilderingPleasures of soul and heart and mind, yet whoWould willingly let slip, freely let goEarth’s mortal loveliness; go wanderingWhere never the late bird is heard to sing,Nor full-sailed cloud-galleons wander slow;No pathways in the woods; no afterglow,When the air’s fire and magic with sense of spring?
So the dark horror clouds us, and the dreadOf the unknown.... But if it must be, thenWhat better passing than to go out like menFor England, giving all in one white glow?Whose bodies shall lie in earth as on a bed,And as the Will directs our spirits may go
Pain, pain continual; pain unending;Hard even to the roughest, but to thoseHungry for beauty.... Not the wisest knows,Nor most pitiful-hearted, what the wendingOf one hour’s way meant. Grey monotony lendingWeight to the grey skies, grey mud where goesAn army of grey bedrenched scarecrows in rowsCareless at last of cruellest Fate-sending.Seeing the pitiful eyes of men foredone,Or horses shot, too tired merely to stir,Dying in shell-holes both, slain by the mud.Men broken, shrieking even to hear a gun.—Till pain grinds down, or lethargy numbs her,The amazed heart cries angrily out on God.
Pain, pain continual; pain unending;Hard even to the roughest, but to thoseHungry for beauty.... Not the wisest knows,Nor most pitiful-hearted, what the wendingOf one hour’s way meant. Grey monotony lendingWeight to the grey skies, grey mud where goesAn army of grey bedrenched scarecrows in rowsCareless at last of cruellest Fate-sending.Seeing the pitiful eyes of men foredone,Or horses shot, too tired merely to stir,Dying in shell-holes both, slain by the mud.Men broken, shrieking even to hear a gun.—Till pain grinds down, or lethargy numbs her,The amazed heart cries angrily out on God.
Pain, pain continual; pain unending;Hard even to the roughest, but to thoseHungry for beauty.... Not the wisest knows,Nor most pitiful-hearted, what the wendingOf one hour’s way meant. Grey monotony lendingWeight to the grey skies, grey mud where goesAn army of grey bedrenched scarecrows in rowsCareless at last of cruellest Fate-sending.Seeing the pitiful eyes of men foredone,Or horses shot, too tired merely to stir,Dying in shell-holes both, slain by the mud.Men broken, shrieking even to hear a gun.—Till pain grinds down, or lethargy numbs her,The amazed heart cries angrily out on God.
Ifit were not for England, who would bearThis heavy servitude one moment more?To keep a brothel, sweep and wash the floorOf filthiest hovels were noble to compareWith this brass-cleaning life. Now here, now thereHarried in foolishness, scanned curiously o’erBy fools made brazen by conceit, and storeOf antique witticisms thin and bare.Only the love of comrades sweetens all,Whose laughing spirit will not be outdone.As night-watching men wait for the sunTo hearten them, so wait I on such boysAs neither brass nor Hell-fire may appal,Nor guns, nor sergeant-major’s bluster and noise.
Ifit were not for England, who would bearThis heavy servitude one moment more?To keep a brothel, sweep and wash the floorOf filthiest hovels were noble to compareWith this brass-cleaning life. Now here, now thereHarried in foolishness, scanned curiously o’erBy fools made brazen by conceit, and storeOf antique witticisms thin and bare.Only the love of comrades sweetens all,Whose laughing spirit will not be outdone.As night-watching men wait for the sunTo hearten them, so wait I on such boysAs neither brass nor Hell-fire may appal,Nor guns, nor sergeant-major’s bluster and noise.
Ifit were not for England, who would bearThis heavy servitude one moment more?To keep a brothel, sweep and wash the floorOf filthiest hovels were noble to compareWith this brass-cleaning life. Now here, now thereHarried in foolishness, scanned curiously o’erBy fools made brazen by conceit, and storeOf antique witticisms thin and bare.
Only the love of comrades sweetens all,Whose laughing spirit will not be outdone.As night-watching men wait for the sunTo hearten them, so wait I on such boysAs neither brass nor Hell-fire may appal,Nor guns, nor sergeant-major’s bluster and noise.
Whenwe go wandering the wide air’s blue spaces,Bare, unhappy, exiled souls of men;How will our thoughts over and over againReturn to Earth’s familiar lovely places,Where light with shadow ever interlaces—No blanks of blue, nor ways beyond man’s ken—Where birds are, and flowers, as violet, and wren,Blackbird, bluebell, hedge-sparrow, tiny daisies.O tiny things, but very stuff of soulTo us ... so frail.... Remember what we are;Set us not on some strange outlandish star,But one caring for Love. Give us a Home.There we may wait while the long ages rollContent, unfrightened by vast Time-to-come.
Whenwe go wandering the wide air’s blue spaces,Bare, unhappy, exiled souls of men;How will our thoughts over and over againReturn to Earth’s familiar lovely places,Where light with shadow ever interlaces—No blanks of blue, nor ways beyond man’s ken—Where birds are, and flowers, as violet, and wren,Blackbird, bluebell, hedge-sparrow, tiny daisies.O tiny things, but very stuff of soulTo us ... so frail.... Remember what we are;Set us not on some strange outlandish star,But one caring for Love. Give us a Home.There we may wait while the long ages rollContent, unfrightened by vast Time-to-come.
Whenwe go wandering the wide air’s blue spaces,Bare, unhappy, exiled souls of men;How will our thoughts over and over againReturn to Earth’s familiar lovely places,Where light with shadow ever interlaces—No blanks of blue, nor ways beyond man’s ken—Where birds are, and flowers, as violet, and wren,Blackbird, bluebell, hedge-sparrow, tiny daisies.
O tiny things, but very stuff of soulTo us ... so frail.... Remember what we are;Set us not on some strange outlandish star,But one caring for Love. Give us a Home.There we may wait while the long ages rollContent, unfrightened by vast Time-to-come.
Wehave done our utmost, England, terribleAnd dear taskmistress, darling Mother and stern.The unnoticed nations praise us, but we turnFirstly, only to thee—“Have we done well?Say, are you pleased?”—and watch your eyes that tellTo us all secrets, eyes sea-deep that burnWith love so long denied; with tears discernThe scars and haggard look of all that hell.Thy love, thy love shall cherish, make us whole,Whereto the power of Death’s destruction is weak.Death impotent, by boys bemocked at, whoWill leave unblotted in the soldier-soulGold of the daffodil, the sunset streak,The innocence and joy of England’s blue.
Wehave done our utmost, England, terribleAnd dear taskmistress, darling Mother and stern.The unnoticed nations praise us, but we turnFirstly, only to thee—“Have we done well?Say, are you pleased?”—and watch your eyes that tellTo us all secrets, eyes sea-deep that burnWith love so long denied; with tears discernThe scars and haggard look of all that hell.Thy love, thy love shall cherish, make us whole,Whereto the power of Death’s destruction is weak.Death impotent, by boys bemocked at, whoWill leave unblotted in the soldier-soulGold of the daffodil, the sunset streak,The innocence and joy of England’s blue.
Wehave done our utmost, England, terribleAnd dear taskmistress, darling Mother and stern.The unnoticed nations praise us, but we turnFirstly, only to thee—“Have we done well?Say, are you pleased?”—and watch your eyes that tellTo us all secrets, eyes sea-deep that burnWith love so long denied; with tears discernThe scars and haggard look of all that hell.
Thy love, thy love shall cherish, make us whole,Whereto the power of Death’s destruction is weak.Death impotent, by boys bemocked at, whoWill leave unblotted in the soldier-soulGold of the daffodil, the sunset streak,The innocence and joy of England’s blue.
THE ENDPRINTED BYHAZELL, WATSON AND VINEY, LD.,LONDON AND AYLESBURY.
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