XIXFUSIONIt was fulfilled. The giantdhowbestirredHerself, burst from her slender moorings, ranExulting on her course beyond the greenThin shallows to the deeper violetOf that great gem wherein the continentsAre flaws. With creaking oars and fluttering sailsThe wingèd ghost swept outward. On the prowUnveiled the Queen stood whiter than the sails,And save the revelation made no sign;And all the sound of singing was brought low.Then, as the vision vanished in the hushedTwilight that painted out the caravan,Leaving the pilgrims but aburnûs-blurOn the drab canvas of the shore, a wailRose, and to them the Dreamer's last reply:"The aimless spindrift mingles with the scatsWhere suddenly the desert is the beach.A low wind whimpers up and down the flatsSeeking some obstacle to lend it speech."The sky bleeds pale as from a mortal wound,Darkening the waters. To a treble EGulls stiffly wheel their nomad escort roundA white sail dwindling in the impassive sea."A last beam smites it with a benison.The lantern twinkles fainter at its mast.It bears the purpose in me that is gone,The only thing that cannot be, the past."Let there be night. Shall evensong complain?My love was utter. Now I seek no sign.Mine eyes have seen, and shall not see again.Out of the deep shall call no voice of mine."Yet I, whose happiness is hidden from view,Have climbed the hill and touched eternity,And Pisgah is a memory—of you,A white sail sinking in the summer sea."The ship drove spaceward to the skyline's crater,The last of day flared vibrant as a cry,And in the Dreamer Emptiness loomed greaterThan the unrifted pumice of the sky.He turned to see the friends whose hope had endedLike his beside the gulf. He was alone.The singers and the glory that had blendedWith meaner notes and lowly, all were goneInto thin air. But, patient of his tether,Enduring as the dream he would not break,Only old Tous remained. As back togetherThey fared, once more it seemed the camel spake:"Lo, these the fleeting and the true,The keen to sacrifice and slow,The plumed, the crawling, all were YouThat started hither long ago.For man is many when begun,But Love can weave his ends to one."The new, the ancient, song and prose,The lower road, the higher aim,The clean, the draggled, dust and snowsWere you the striving, you the same.Pride and endeavour, love and loss,The pattern is the threads that cross."Tilth, waste and water, sand and sap,Tare, thorn and thistle, wine and oil,Run throughyourNature like a map,AreYou. The ores that vein the soilOf time and substance manifoldAwait the hour that makes them gold,"That found the force of you dispersedOn all adventure save a quest,And part perhaps was on the worst.It sent you all upon the best,Wherein the journey is the goal.Now leaving you they leave you whole."The rabble melts, but more remains:The golden opportunityBy which the choir in us attainsNot unison but unity.We feel the sunbeam, not the motes.The Voice is made of many notes."Slave, merchant, scholar, fighting-man,The gambling, stumbling, praying kithWe called the Singing Caravan,Have made their song at least no mythNot dawn to which yon skylark soaredBut earth is his and your reward."The story ends, but not the book.Sufi, the Queen that you ensuedLed and shall lead you still to lookOn peace—it is not solitude.Through her your warring kingdoms met,And here is room for no regret."So Dreamer-of-the-Age returnedWith comfort, all his being fusedAt last, and thus at night he musedBeside the fire that in him burned:"Heirs of the beauty yet to be,Hail, from however far aheadOr out of sight I hear you treadThe dust that made this tale and me."Each day shall raise me to rejoiceThat lovers such as we must bearThe unbroken chain of life and shareIts thanksgiving. Perhaps my voice"Shall be the servant of your mind,Your linkman waiting in the archOf phantom city-gates to marchWith you by secret ways. The wind"Shall tell me of you, he and IBe keenly with you, when you goForth in my footsteps and the glowOf movement, steadfast to deny"Only the frailer self. My griefShall answer your unspoken wordThrough blithe interpreters, a birdWaking, the sounds of rill and leaf."By many a caravanseraiI shall not fail to watch you come,You of some far millennium,Who, listening to the bird, will say:"'I seem to know that tune of his;He sings what all can understand.'In the clear water dip your hand:'His deepest note was only this.'"You shall be glad of me, the shade,Sighing 'O friend.' And I shall keepThe benediction of your sleep;And, when the woods of darkness fade,"Shall waken with you, I that hadLove to the full, and praised my lot,Trusting in truth to be forgotFor worthier verse. Ah, make me glad,"You that come after me, and callFrom summits that outstrip my hopes.Yet I shall linger on the slopesAnd dwell with those who gave their all."
It was fulfilled. The giantdhowbestirredHerself, burst from her slender moorings, ranExulting on her course beyond the greenThin shallows to the deeper violetOf that great gem wherein the continentsAre flaws. With creaking oars and fluttering sailsThe wingèd ghost swept outward. On the prowUnveiled the Queen stood whiter than the sails,And save the revelation made no sign;And all the sound of singing was brought low.Then, as the vision vanished in the hushedTwilight that painted out the caravan,Leaving the pilgrims but aburnûs-blurOn the drab canvas of the shore, a wailRose, and to them the Dreamer's last reply:"The aimless spindrift mingles with the scatsWhere suddenly the desert is the beach.A low wind whimpers up and down the flatsSeeking some obstacle to lend it speech."The sky bleeds pale as from a mortal wound,Darkening the waters. To a treble EGulls stiffly wheel their nomad escort roundA white sail dwindling in the impassive sea."A last beam smites it with a benison.The lantern twinkles fainter at its mast.It bears the purpose in me that is gone,The only thing that cannot be, the past."Let there be night. Shall evensong complain?My love was utter. Now I seek no sign.Mine eyes have seen, and shall not see again.Out of the deep shall call no voice of mine."Yet I, whose happiness is hidden from view,Have climbed the hill and touched eternity,And Pisgah is a memory—of you,A white sail sinking in the summer sea."The ship drove spaceward to the skyline's crater,The last of day flared vibrant as a cry,And in the Dreamer Emptiness loomed greaterThan the unrifted pumice of the sky.He turned to see the friends whose hope had endedLike his beside the gulf. He was alone.The singers and the glory that had blendedWith meaner notes and lowly, all were goneInto thin air. But, patient of his tether,Enduring as the dream he would not break,Only old Tous remained. As back togetherThey fared, once more it seemed the camel spake:"Lo, these the fleeting and the true,The keen to sacrifice and slow,The plumed, the crawling, all were YouThat started hither long ago.For man is many when begun,But Love can weave his ends to one."The new, the ancient, song and prose,The lower road, the higher aim,The clean, the draggled, dust and snowsWere you the striving, you the same.Pride and endeavour, love and loss,The pattern is the threads that cross."Tilth, waste and water, sand and sap,Tare, thorn and thistle, wine and oil,Run throughyourNature like a map,AreYou. The ores that vein the soilOf time and substance manifoldAwait the hour that makes them gold,"That found the force of you dispersedOn all adventure save a quest,And part perhaps was on the worst.It sent you all upon the best,Wherein the journey is the goal.Now leaving you they leave you whole."The rabble melts, but more remains:The golden opportunityBy which the choir in us attainsNot unison but unity.We feel the sunbeam, not the motes.The Voice is made of many notes."Slave, merchant, scholar, fighting-man,The gambling, stumbling, praying kithWe called the Singing Caravan,Have made their song at least no mythNot dawn to which yon skylark soaredBut earth is his and your reward."The story ends, but not the book.Sufi, the Queen that you ensuedLed and shall lead you still to lookOn peace—it is not solitude.Through her your warring kingdoms met,And here is room for no regret."So Dreamer-of-the-Age returnedWith comfort, all his being fusedAt last, and thus at night he musedBeside the fire that in him burned:"Heirs of the beauty yet to be,Hail, from however far aheadOr out of sight I hear you treadThe dust that made this tale and me."Each day shall raise me to rejoiceThat lovers such as we must bearThe unbroken chain of life and shareIts thanksgiving. Perhaps my voice"Shall be the servant of your mind,Your linkman waiting in the archOf phantom city-gates to marchWith you by secret ways. The wind"Shall tell me of you, he and IBe keenly with you, when you goForth in my footsteps and the glowOf movement, steadfast to deny"Only the frailer self. My griefShall answer your unspoken wordThrough blithe interpreters, a birdWaking, the sounds of rill and leaf."By many a caravanseraiI shall not fail to watch you come,You of some far millennium,Who, listening to the bird, will say:"'I seem to know that tune of his;He sings what all can understand.'In the clear water dip your hand:'His deepest note was only this.'"You shall be glad of me, the shade,Sighing 'O friend.' And I shall keepThe benediction of your sleep;And, when the woods of darkness fade,"Shall waken with you, I that hadLove to the full, and praised my lot,Trusting in truth to be forgotFor worthier verse. Ah, make me glad,"You that come after me, and callFrom summits that outstrip my hopes.Yet I shall linger on the slopesAnd dwell with those who gave their all."
It was fulfilled. The giantdhowbestirredHerself, burst from her slender moorings, ranExulting on her course beyond the greenThin shallows to the deeper violetOf that great gem wherein the continentsAre flaws. With creaking oars and fluttering sailsThe wingèd ghost swept outward. On the prowUnveiled the Queen stood whiter than the sails,And save the revelation made no sign;And all the sound of singing was brought low.Then, as the vision vanished in the hushedTwilight that painted out the caravan,Leaving the pilgrims but aburnûs-blurOn the drab canvas of the shore, a wailRose, and to them the Dreamer's last reply:"The aimless spindrift mingles with the scatsWhere suddenly the desert is the beach.A low wind whimpers up and down the flatsSeeking some obstacle to lend it speech."The sky bleeds pale as from a mortal wound,Darkening the waters. To a treble EGulls stiffly wheel their nomad escort roundA white sail dwindling in the impassive sea."A last beam smites it with a benison.The lantern twinkles fainter at its mast.It bears the purpose in me that is gone,The only thing that cannot be, the past."Let there be night. Shall evensong complain?My love was utter. Now I seek no sign.Mine eyes have seen, and shall not see again.Out of the deep shall call no voice of mine."Yet I, whose happiness is hidden from view,Have climbed the hill and touched eternity,And Pisgah is a memory—of you,A white sail sinking in the summer sea."The ship drove spaceward to the skyline's crater,The last of day flared vibrant as a cry,And in the Dreamer Emptiness loomed greaterThan the unrifted pumice of the sky.He turned to see the friends whose hope had endedLike his beside the gulf. He was alone.The singers and the glory that had blendedWith meaner notes and lowly, all were goneInto thin air. But, patient of his tether,Enduring as the dream he would not break,Only old Tous remained. As back togetherThey fared, once more it seemed the camel spake:"Lo, these the fleeting and the true,The keen to sacrifice and slow,The plumed, the crawling, all were YouThat started hither long ago.For man is many when begun,But Love can weave his ends to one."The new, the ancient, song and prose,The lower road, the higher aim,The clean, the draggled, dust and snowsWere you the striving, you the same.Pride and endeavour, love and loss,The pattern is the threads that cross."Tilth, waste and water, sand and sap,Tare, thorn and thistle, wine and oil,Run throughyourNature like a map,AreYou. The ores that vein the soilOf time and substance manifoldAwait the hour that makes them gold,"That found the force of you dispersedOn all adventure save a quest,And part perhaps was on the worst.It sent you all upon the best,Wherein the journey is the goal.Now leaving you they leave you whole."The rabble melts, but more remains:The golden opportunityBy which the choir in us attainsNot unison but unity.We feel the sunbeam, not the motes.The Voice is made of many notes."Slave, merchant, scholar, fighting-man,The gambling, stumbling, praying kithWe called the Singing Caravan,Have made their song at least no mythNot dawn to which yon skylark soaredBut earth is his and your reward."The story ends, but not the book.Sufi, the Queen that you ensuedLed and shall lead you still to lookOn peace—it is not solitude.Through her your warring kingdoms met,And here is room for no regret."So Dreamer-of-the-Age returnedWith comfort, all his being fusedAt last, and thus at night he musedBeside the fire that in him burned:"Heirs of the beauty yet to be,Hail, from however far aheadOr out of sight I hear you treadThe dust that made this tale and me."Each day shall raise me to rejoiceThat lovers such as we must bearThe unbroken chain of life and shareIts thanksgiving. Perhaps my voice"Shall be the servant of your mind,Your linkman waiting in the archOf phantom city-gates to marchWith you by secret ways. The wind"Shall tell me of you, he and IBe keenly with you, when you goForth in my footsteps and the glowOf movement, steadfast to deny"Only the frailer self. My griefShall answer your unspoken wordThrough blithe interpreters, a birdWaking, the sounds of rill and leaf."By many a caravanseraiI shall not fail to watch you come,You of some far millennium,Who, listening to the bird, will say:"'I seem to know that tune of his;He sings what all can understand.'In the clear water dip your hand:'His deepest note was only this.'"You shall be glad of me, the shade,Sighing 'O friend.' And I shall keepThe benediction of your sleep;And, when the woods of darkness fade,"Shall waken with you, I that hadLove to the full, and praised my lot,Trusting in truth to be forgotFor worthier verse. Ah, make me glad,"You that come after me, and callFrom summits that outstrip my hopes.Yet I shall linger on the slopesAnd dwell with those who gave their all."
It was fulfilled. The giantdhowbestirredHerself, burst from her slender moorings, ranExulting on her course beyond the greenThin shallows to the deeper violetOf that great gem wherein the continentsAre flaws. With creaking oars and fluttering sailsThe wingèd ghost swept outward. On the prowUnveiled the Queen stood whiter than the sails,And save the revelation made no sign;And all the sound of singing was brought low.Then, as the vision vanished in the hushedTwilight that painted out the caravan,Leaving the pilgrims but aburnûs-blurOn the drab canvas of the shore, a wailRose, and to them the Dreamer's last reply:
It was fulfilled. The giantdhowbestirred
Herself, burst from her slender moorings, ran
Exulting on her course beyond the green
Thin shallows to the deeper violet
Of that great gem wherein the continents
Are flaws. With creaking oars and fluttering sails
The wingèd ghost swept outward. On the prow
Unveiled the Queen stood whiter than the sails,
And save the revelation made no sign;
And all the sound of singing was brought low.
Then, as the vision vanished in the hushed
Twilight that painted out the caravan,
Leaving the pilgrims but aburnûs-blur
On the drab canvas of the shore, a wail
Rose, and to them the Dreamer's last reply:
"The aimless spindrift mingles with the scatsWhere suddenly the desert is the beach.A low wind whimpers up and down the flatsSeeking some obstacle to lend it speech.
"The aimless spindrift mingles with the scats
Where suddenly the desert is the beach.
A low wind whimpers up and down the flats
Seeking some obstacle to lend it speech.
"The sky bleeds pale as from a mortal wound,Darkening the waters. To a treble EGulls stiffly wheel their nomad escort roundA white sail dwindling in the impassive sea.
"The sky bleeds pale as from a mortal wound,
Darkening the waters. To a treble E
Gulls stiffly wheel their nomad escort round
A white sail dwindling in the impassive sea.
"A last beam smites it with a benison.The lantern twinkles fainter at its mast.It bears the purpose in me that is gone,The only thing that cannot be, the past.
"A last beam smites it with a benison.
The lantern twinkles fainter at its mast.
It bears the purpose in me that is gone,
The only thing that cannot be, the past.
"Let there be night. Shall evensong complain?My love was utter. Now I seek no sign.Mine eyes have seen, and shall not see again.Out of the deep shall call no voice of mine.
"Let there be night. Shall evensong complain?
My love was utter. Now I seek no sign.
Mine eyes have seen, and shall not see again.
Out of the deep shall call no voice of mine.
"Yet I, whose happiness is hidden from view,Have climbed the hill and touched eternity,And Pisgah is a memory—of you,A white sail sinking in the summer sea."
"Yet I, whose happiness is hidden from view,
Have climbed the hill and touched eternity,
And Pisgah is a memory—of you,
A white sail sinking in the summer sea."
The ship drove spaceward to the skyline's crater,The last of day flared vibrant as a cry,And in the Dreamer Emptiness loomed greaterThan the unrifted pumice of the sky.
The ship drove spaceward to the skyline's crater,
The last of day flared vibrant as a cry,
And in the Dreamer Emptiness loomed greater
Than the unrifted pumice of the sky.
He turned to see the friends whose hope had endedLike his beside the gulf. He was alone.The singers and the glory that had blendedWith meaner notes and lowly, all were gone
He turned to see the friends whose hope had ended
Like his beside the gulf. He was alone.
The singers and the glory that had blended
With meaner notes and lowly, all were gone
Into thin air. But, patient of his tether,Enduring as the dream he would not break,Only old Tous remained. As back togetherThey fared, once more it seemed the camel spake:
Into thin air. But, patient of his tether,
Enduring as the dream he would not break,
Only old Tous remained. As back together
They fared, once more it seemed the camel spake:
"Lo, these the fleeting and the true,The keen to sacrifice and slow,The plumed, the crawling, all were YouThat started hither long ago.For man is many when begun,But Love can weave his ends to one.
"Lo, these the fleeting and the true,
The keen to sacrifice and slow,
The plumed, the crawling, all were You
That started hither long ago.
For man is many when begun,
But Love can weave his ends to one.
"The new, the ancient, song and prose,The lower road, the higher aim,The clean, the draggled, dust and snowsWere you the striving, you the same.Pride and endeavour, love and loss,The pattern is the threads that cross.
"The new, the ancient, song and prose,
The lower road, the higher aim,
The clean, the draggled, dust and snows
Were you the striving, you the same.
Pride and endeavour, love and loss,
The pattern is the threads that cross.
"Tilth, waste and water, sand and sap,Tare, thorn and thistle, wine and oil,Run throughyourNature like a map,AreYou. The ores that vein the soilOf time and substance manifoldAwait the hour that makes them gold,
"Tilth, waste and water, sand and sap,
Tare, thorn and thistle, wine and oil,
Run throughyourNature like a map,
AreYou. The ores that vein the soil
Of time and substance manifold
Await the hour that makes them gold,
"That found the force of you dispersedOn all adventure save a quest,And part perhaps was on the worst.It sent you all upon the best,Wherein the journey is the goal.Now leaving you they leave you whole.
"That found the force of you dispersed
On all adventure save a quest,
And part perhaps was on the worst.
It sent you all upon the best,
Wherein the journey is the goal.
Now leaving you they leave you whole.
"The rabble melts, but more remains:The golden opportunityBy which the choir in us attainsNot unison but unity.We feel the sunbeam, not the motes.The Voice is made of many notes.
"The rabble melts, but more remains:
The golden opportunity
By which the choir in us attains
Not unison but unity.
We feel the sunbeam, not the motes.
The Voice is made of many notes.
"Slave, merchant, scholar, fighting-man,The gambling, stumbling, praying kithWe called the Singing Caravan,Have made their song at least no mythNot dawn to which yon skylark soaredBut earth is his and your reward.
"Slave, merchant, scholar, fighting-man,
The gambling, stumbling, praying kith
We called the Singing Caravan,
Have made their song at least no myth
Not dawn to which yon skylark soared
But earth is his and your reward.
"The story ends, but not the book.Sufi, the Queen that you ensuedLed and shall lead you still to lookOn peace—it is not solitude.Through her your warring kingdoms met,And here is room for no regret."
"The story ends, but not the book.
Sufi, the Queen that you ensued
Led and shall lead you still to look
On peace—it is not solitude.
Through her your warring kingdoms met,
And here is room for no regret."
So Dreamer-of-the-Age returnedWith comfort, all his being fusedAt last, and thus at night he musedBeside the fire that in him burned:
So Dreamer-of-the-Age returned
With comfort, all his being fused
At last, and thus at night he mused
Beside the fire that in him burned:
"Heirs of the beauty yet to be,Hail, from however far aheadOr out of sight I hear you treadThe dust that made this tale and me.
"Heirs of the beauty yet to be,
Hail, from however far ahead
Or out of sight I hear you tread
The dust that made this tale and me.
"Each day shall raise me to rejoiceThat lovers such as we must bearThe unbroken chain of life and shareIts thanksgiving. Perhaps my voice
"Each day shall raise me to rejoice
That lovers such as we must bear
The unbroken chain of life and share
Its thanksgiving. Perhaps my voice
"Shall be the servant of your mind,Your linkman waiting in the archOf phantom city-gates to marchWith you by secret ways. The wind
"Shall be the servant of your mind,
Your linkman waiting in the arch
Of phantom city-gates to march
With you by secret ways. The wind
"Shall tell me of you, he and IBe keenly with you, when you goForth in my footsteps and the glowOf movement, steadfast to deny
"Shall tell me of you, he and I
Be keenly with you, when you go
Forth in my footsteps and the glow
Of movement, steadfast to deny
"Only the frailer self. My griefShall answer your unspoken wordThrough blithe interpreters, a birdWaking, the sounds of rill and leaf.
"Only the frailer self. My grief
Shall answer your unspoken word
Through blithe interpreters, a bird
Waking, the sounds of rill and leaf.
"By many a caravanseraiI shall not fail to watch you come,You of some far millennium,Who, listening to the bird, will say:
"By many a caravanserai
I shall not fail to watch you come,
You of some far millennium,
Who, listening to the bird, will say:
"'I seem to know that tune of his;He sings what all can understand.'In the clear water dip your hand:'His deepest note was only this.'
"'I seem to know that tune of his;
He sings what all can understand.'
In the clear water dip your hand:
'His deepest note was only this.'
"You shall be glad of me, the shade,Sighing 'O friend.' And I shall keepThe benediction of your sleep;And, when the woods of darkness fade,
"You shall be glad of me, the shade,
Sighing 'O friend.' And I shall keep
The benediction of your sleep;
And, when the woods of darkness fade,
"Shall waken with you, I that hadLove to the full, and praised my lot,Trusting in truth to be forgotFor worthier verse. Ah, make me glad,
"Shall waken with you, I that had
Love to the full, and praised my lot,
Trusting in truth to be forgot
For worthier verse. Ah, make me glad,
"You that come after me, and callFrom summits that outstrip my hopes.Yet I shall linger on the slopesAnd dwell with those who gave their all."
"You that come after me, and call
From summits that outstrip my hopes.
Yet I shall linger on the slopes
And dwell with those who gave their all."
XXLONG LEAVEI bow my head, O brother, brother, brother,But may not grudge you that were All to me.Should anyonelament when this our MotherMourns for so many sons on land and sea.God of the love that makes two lives as oneGive also strength to see that England's will be done.Let it be done, yea, down to the last tittle,Up to the fullness of all sacrifice.Our dead feared this alone—to give too little.Then shall the living murmur at the price?The hands withdrawn from ours to grasp the ploughWould suffer only if the furrow faltered now.Know, fellow-mourners—be our cross too grievous—That One who sealed our symbol with His bloodVouchsafed the vision that shall never leave us,Those humble crosses in the Flanders mud;And think there rests all-hallowed in each graveA life given freely for the world He died to save.And, ages hence, dim tramping generationsWho never knew and cannot guess our pain—Though history count nothing less than nations,And fame forget where grass has grown again—Shall yet remember that the world is free.It is enough. For this is immortality.I raise my head, O brother, brother, brother.The organ sobs for triumph to my heart.What! Who will think that ransomed earth can smotherHer own great soul, of which you are a part!The requiem music dies as if itknewThe inviolate peace where 'tis already well with you.
I bow my head, O brother, brother, brother,But may not grudge you that were All to me.Should anyonelament when this our MotherMourns for so many sons on land and sea.God of the love that makes two lives as oneGive also strength to see that England's will be done.Let it be done, yea, down to the last tittle,Up to the fullness of all sacrifice.Our dead feared this alone—to give too little.Then shall the living murmur at the price?The hands withdrawn from ours to grasp the ploughWould suffer only if the furrow faltered now.Know, fellow-mourners—be our cross too grievous—That One who sealed our symbol with His bloodVouchsafed the vision that shall never leave us,Those humble crosses in the Flanders mud;And think there rests all-hallowed in each graveA life given freely for the world He died to save.And, ages hence, dim tramping generationsWho never knew and cannot guess our pain—Though history count nothing less than nations,And fame forget where grass has grown again—Shall yet remember that the world is free.It is enough. For this is immortality.I raise my head, O brother, brother, brother.The organ sobs for triumph to my heart.What! Who will think that ransomed earth can smotherHer own great soul, of which you are a part!The requiem music dies as if itknewThe inviolate peace where 'tis already well with you.
I bow my head, O brother, brother, brother,But may not grudge you that were All to me.Should anyonelament when this our MotherMourns for so many sons on land and sea.God of the love that makes two lives as oneGive also strength to see that England's will be done.Let it be done, yea, down to the last tittle,Up to the fullness of all sacrifice.Our dead feared this alone—to give too little.Then shall the living murmur at the price?The hands withdrawn from ours to grasp the ploughWould suffer only if the furrow faltered now.Know, fellow-mourners—be our cross too grievous—That One who sealed our symbol with His bloodVouchsafed the vision that shall never leave us,Those humble crosses in the Flanders mud;And think there rests all-hallowed in each graveA life given freely for the world He died to save.And, ages hence, dim tramping generationsWho never knew and cannot guess our pain—Though history count nothing less than nations,And fame forget where grass has grown again—Shall yet remember that the world is free.It is enough. For this is immortality.I raise my head, O brother, brother, brother.The organ sobs for triumph to my heart.What! Who will think that ransomed earth can smotherHer own great soul, of which you are a part!The requiem music dies as if itknewThe inviolate peace where 'tis already well with you.
I bow my head, O brother, brother, brother,But may not grudge you that were All to me.Should anyonelament when this our MotherMourns for so many sons on land and sea.God of the love that makes two lives as oneGive also strength to see that England's will be done.
I bow my head, O brother, brother, brother,
But may not grudge you that were All to me.
Should anyonelament when this our Mother
Mourns for so many sons on land and sea.
God of the love that makes two lives as one
Give also strength to see that England's will be done.
Let it be done, yea, down to the last tittle,Up to the fullness of all sacrifice.Our dead feared this alone—to give too little.Then shall the living murmur at the price?The hands withdrawn from ours to grasp the ploughWould suffer only if the furrow faltered now.
Let it be done, yea, down to the last tittle,
Up to the fullness of all sacrifice.
Our dead feared this alone—to give too little.
Then shall the living murmur at the price?
The hands withdrawn from ours to grasp the plough
Would suffer only if the furrow faltered now.
Know, fellow-mourners—be our cross too grievous—That One who sealed our symbol with His bloodVouchsafed the vision that shall never leave us,Those humble crosses in the Flanders mud;And think there rests all-hallowed in each graveA life given freely for the world He died to save.
Know, fellow-mourners—be our cross too grievous—
That One who sealed our symbol with His blood
Vouchsafed the vision that shall never leave us,
Those humble crosses in the Flanders mud;
And think there rests all-hallowed in each grave
A life given freely for the world He died to save.
And, ages hence, dim tramping generationsWho never knew and cannot guess our pain—Though history count nothing less than nations,And fame forget where grass has grown again—Shall yet remember that the world is free.It is enough. For this is immortality.
And, ages hence, dim tramping generations
Who never knew and cannot guess our pain—
Though history count nothing less than nations,
And fame forget where grass has grown again—
Shall yet remember that the world is free.
It is enough. For this is immortality.
I raise my head, O brother, brother, brother.The organ sobs for triumph to my heart.What! Who will think that ransomed earth can smotherHer own great soul, of which you are a part!The requiem music dies as if itknewThe inviolate peace where 'tis already well with you.
I raise my head, O brother, brother, brother.
The organ sobs for triumph to my heart.
What! Who will think that ransomed earth can smother
Her own great soul, of which you are a part!
The requiem music dies as if itknew
The inviolate peace where 'tis already well with you.
EPILOGUE"It's not as easy as you think,"The nettled poet sighed."It's not as good as I could wish,"The publisher replied."It might," the kindly critic wrote,"Have easily beenworse.""We will not read it anyhow,"The public said, "it's verse."PRINTED AT THE COMPLETE PRESSWEST NORWOOD, LONDON
"It's not as easy as you think,"The nettled poet sighed."It's not as good as I could wish,"The publisher replied."It might," the kindly critic wrote,"Have easily beenworse.""We will not read it anyhow,"The public said, "it's verse."
"It's not as easy as you think,"The nettled poet sighed."It's not as good as I could wish,"The publisher replied."It might," the kindly critic wrote,"Have easily beenworse.""We will not read it anyhow,"The public said, "it's verse."
"It's not as easy as you think,"The nettled poet sighed."It's not as good as I could wish,"The publisher replied."It might," the kindly critic wrote,"Have easily beenworse.""We will not read it anyhow,"The public said, "it's verse."
"It's not as easy as you think,"
The nettled poet sighed.
"It's not as good as I could wish,"
The publisher replied.
"It might," the kindly critic wrote,
"Have easily beenworse."
"We will not read it anyhow,"
The public said, "it's verse."
PRINTED AT THE COMPLETE PRESSWEST NORWOOD, LONDON
Transcriber's NoteAll unusual, archaic and inconsistent spellings and usage have been maintained as in the original text. Here are some notes:The Greek word in theIn Memoriam—πολύμητις—would be transliterated "polymêtis", and the Greek phrase which appears inThe History of the Adventurer—οἱ πολλοὶ— would be transliterated "hoi polloi."I added the entries for "In Memoriam" and "Acknowledgements" to the Table of Contents.The cover was created by Linda Hamilton at pgdp.net, and is in the public domain.
Transcriber's NoteAll unusual, archaic and inconsistent spellings and usage have been maintained as in the original text. Here are some notes:The Greek word in theIn Memoriam—πολύμητις—would be transliterated "polymêtis", and the Greek phrase which appears inThe History of the Adventurer—οἱ πολλοὶ— would be transliterated "hoi polloi."I added the entries for "In Memoriam" and "Acknowledgements" to the Table of Contents.The cover was created by Linda Hamilton at pgdp.net, and is in the public domain.
All unusual, archaic and inconsistent spellings and usage have been maintained as in the original text. Here are some notes:
The Greek word in theIn Memoriam—πολύμητις—would be transliterated "polymêtis", and the Greek phrase which appears inThe History of the Adventurer—οἱ πολλοὶ— would be transliterated "hoi polloi."
I added the entries for "In Memoriam" and "Acknowledgements" to the Table of Contents.
The cover was created by Linda Hamilton at pgdp.net, and is in the public domain.