ELEGY[1918]
Ah, how I pity the young dead who gaveAll that they were, and might become, that weWith tired eyes should watch this perfect seaReweave its patterning of silver waveRound scented cliffs of arbutus and bay.No more shall any rose along the way,The myrtled way that wanders to the shore,Nor jonquil-twinkling meadow any more,Nor the warm lavender that takes the spray,Smell only of the sea-salt and the sun,But, through recurring seasons, every oneShall speak to us with lips the darkness closes,Shall look at us with eyes that missed the roses,Clutch us with hands whose work was just begun,Laid idle now beneath the earth we tread—And always we shall walk with the young dead—Ah, how I pity the young dead, whose eyesStrain through the sod to see these perfect skies,Who feel the new wheat springing in their stead,And the lark singing for them overhead!
Ah, how I pity the young dead who gaveAll that they were, and might become, that weWith tired eyes should watch this perfect seaReweave its patterning of silver waveRound scented cliffs of arbutus and bay.No more shall any rose along the way,The myrtled way that wanders to the shore,Nor jonquil-twinkling meadow any more,Nor the warm lavender that takes the spray,Smell only of the sea-salt and the sun,But, through recurring seasons, every oneShall speak to us with lips the darkness closes,Shall look at us with eyes that missed the roses,Clutch us with hands whose work was just begun,Laid idle now beneath the earth we tread—And always we shall walk with the young dead—Ah, how I pity the young dead, whose eyesStrain through the sod to see these perfect skies,Who feel the new wheat springing in their stead,And the lark singing for them overhead!
Ah, how I pity the young dead who gaveAll that they were, and might become, that weWith tired eyes should watch this perfect seaReweave its patterning of silver waveRound scented cliffs of arbutus and bay.
Ah, how I pity the young dead who gave
All that they were, and might become, that we
With tired eyes should watch this perfect sea
Reweave its patterning of silver wave
Round scented cliffs of arbutus and bay.
No more shall any rose along the way,The myrtled way that wanders to the shore,Nor jonquil-twinkling meadow any more,Nor the warm lavender that takes the spray,Smell only of the sea-salt and the sun,
No more shall any rose along the way,
The myrtled way that wanders to the shore,
Nor jonquil-twinkling meadow any more,
Nor the warm lavender that takes the spray,
Smell only of the sea-salt and the sun,
But, through recurring seasons, every oneShall speak to us with lips the darkness closes,Shall look at us with eyes that missed the roses,Clutch us with hands whose work was just begun,Laid idle now beneath the earth we tread—
But, through recurring seasons, every one
Shall speak to us with lips the darkness closes,
Shall look at us with eyes that missed the roses,
Clutch us with hands whose work was just begun,
Laid idle now beneath the earth we tread—
And always we shall walk with the young dead—Ah, how I pity the young dead, whose eyesStrain through the sod to see these perfect skies,Who feel the new wheat springing in their stead,And the lark singing for them overhead!
And always we shall walk with the young dead—
Ah, how I pity the young dead, whose eyes
Strain through the sod to see these perfect skies,
Who feel the new wheat springing in their stead,
And the lark singing for them overhead!