HILL 60
As some far swimmer, turning, views once moreEngland’s white cliffs, and strongly cleaves t’ward shore,But, tide-encumbered, faints; so far and dearThy crystal arms and pillared throat appear,Love, to thy soldier who makes earth his bedIn this grey catacomb of unnamed dead.Thy voice, o’er tossing seas of eves and dawns,Comes like dim music heard on magic lawns;And, when in prayer thou kneelest, this grim browFeels the cool benison of hands which thouWouldst often grant. Now know I ’twas not vainOur love, whose memory softens present pain.C. J. N.
As some far swimmer, turning, views once moreEngland’s white cliffs, and strongly cleaves t’ward shore,But, tide-encumbered, faints; so far and dearThy crystal arms and pillared throat appear,Love, to thy soldier who makes earth his bedIn this grey catacomb of unnamed dead.Thy voice, o’er tossing seas of eves and dawns,Comes like dim music heard on magic lawns;And, when in prayer thou kneelest, this grim browFeels the cool benison of hands which thouWouldst often grant. Now know I ’twas not vainOur love, whose memory softens present pain.C. J. N.
As some far swimmer, turning, views once moreEngland’s white cliffs, and strongly cleaves t’ward shore,But, tide-encumbered, faints; so far and dearThy crystal arms and pillared throat appear,Love, to thy soldier who makes earth his bedIn this grey catacomb of unnamed dead.Thy voice, o’er tossing seas of eves and dawns,Comes like dim music heard on magic lawns;And, when in prayer thou kneelest, this grim browFeels the cool benison of hands which thouWouldst often grant. Now know I ’twas not vainOur love, whose memory softens present pain.C. J. N.
As some far swimmer, turning, views once more
England’s white cliffs, and strongly cleaves t’ward shore,
But, tide-encumbered, faints; so far and dear
Thy crystal arms and pillared throat appear,
Love, to thy soldier who makes earth his bed
In this grey catacomb of unnamed dead.
Thy voice, o’er tossing seas of eves and dawns,
Comes like dim music heard on magic lawns;
And, when in prayer thou kneelest, this grim brow
Feels the cool benison of hands which thou
Wouldst often grant. Now know I ’twas not vain
Our love, whose memory softens present pain.
C. J. N.
Drawn by F. R. CROZIER
Drawn by F. R. CROZIER
Drawn by F. R. CROZIER
“HILL 60”