Whenthe years of strife are over and my recollection fadesOf the wards wherein I worked the weeks away,I shall still see, as a vision rising ’mid the War-time shades,The ward in France where German wounded lay.I shall see the pallid faces and the half-suspicious eyes,I shall hear the bitter groans and laboured breath,And recall the loud complaining and the weary tedious cries,And sights and smells of blood and wounds and death.I shall see the convoy cases, blanket-covered on the floor,And watch the heavy stretcher-work begin,And the gleam of knives and bottles through the open theatre door,And the operation patients carried in.I shall see the Sister standing, with her form of youthful grace,And the humour and the wisdom of her smile,And the tale of three years’ warfare on her thin expressive face—The weariness of many a toil-filled while.I shall think of how I worked for her with nerve and heart and mind,And marvelled at her courage and her skill,And how the dying enemy her tenderness would findBeneath her scornful energy of will.And I learnt that human mercy turns alike to friend or foeWhen the darkest hour of all is creeping nigh,And those who slew our dearest, when their lamps were burning low,Found help and pity ere they came to die.So, though much will be forgotten when the sound of War’s alarmsAnd the days of death and strife have passed away,I shall always see the vision of Love working amidst armsIn the ward wherein the wounded prisoners lay.France,September 1917.
Whenthe years of strife are over and my recollection fadesOf the wards wherein I worked the weeks away,I shall still see, as a vision rising ’mid the War-time shades,The ward in France where German wounded lay.I shall see the pallid faces and the half-suspicious eyes,I shall hear the bitter groans and laboured breath,And recall the loud complaining and the weary tedious cries,And sights and smells of blood and wounds and death.I shall see the convoy cases, blanket-covered on the floor,And watch the heavy stretcher-work begin,And the gleam of knives and bottles through the open theatre door,And the operation patients carried in.I shall see the Sister standing, with her form of youthful grace,And the humour and the wisdom of her smile,And the tale of three years’ warfare on her thin expressive face—The weariness of many a toil-filled while.I shall think of how I worked for her with nerve and heart and mind,And marvelled at her courage and her skill,And how the dying enemy her tenderness would findBeneath her scornful energy of will.And I learnt that human mercy turns alike to friend or foeWhen the darkest hour of all is creeping nigh,And those who slew our dearest, when their lamps were burning low,Found help and pity ere they came to die.So, though much will be forgotten when the sound of War’s alarmsAnd the days of death and strife have passed away,I shall always see the vision of Love working amidst armsIn the ward wherein the wounded prisoners lay.France,September 1917.
Whenthe years of strife are over and my recollection fadesOf the wards wherein I worked the weeks away,I shall still see, as a vision rising ’mid the War-time shades,The ward in France where German wounded lay.
I shall see the pallid faces and the half-suspicious eyes,I shall hear the bitter groans and laboured breath,And recall the loud complaining and the weary tedious cries,And sights and smells of blood and wounds and death.
I shall see the convoy cases, blanket-covered on the floor,And watch the heavy stretcher-work begin,And the gleam of knives and bottles through the open theatre door,And the operation patients carried in.
I shall see the Sister standing, with her form of youthful grace,And the humour and the wisdom of her smile,And the tale of three years’ warfare on her thin expressive face—The weariness of many a toil-filled while.
I shall think of how I worked for her with nerve and heart and mind,And marvelled at her courage and her skill,And how the dying enemy her tenderness would findBeneath her scornful energy of will.
And I learnt that human mercy turns alike to friend or foeWhen the darkest hour of all is creeping nigh,And those who slew our dearest, when their lamps were burning low,Found help and pity ere they came to die.
So, though much will be forgotten when the sound of War’s alarmsAnd the days of death and strife have passed away,I shall always see the vision of Love working amidst armsIn the ward wherein the wounded prisoners lay.
France,September 1917.
(France, 1917)
Aswe came down from Amiens,And they went up the line,They waved their careless hands to us,And cheered the Red Cross sign.And often I have wondered since,Repicturing that train,How many of those laughing soulsCame down the line again.
Aswe came down from Amiens,And they went up the line,They waved their careless hands to us,And cheered the Red Cross sign.And often I have wondered since,Repicturing that train,How many of those laughing soulsCame down the line again.
Aswe came down from Amiens,And they went up the line,They waved their careless hands to us,And cheered the Red Cross sign.
And often I have wondered since,Repicturing that train,How many of those laughing soulsCame down the line again.
Night Duty, December 1917
Throughthe night-watches of our House of SighsIn capable serenity of mindYou steadily achieve the tasks designedWith calm, half-smiling, interested eyes;Though all-unknowing, confidently wiseConcerning pain you never felt, you findContent from uneventful years ariseAs you toil on, mechanically kind.So thus far have your smooth days passed, but whenThe tempest none escape shall cloud your sky,And Life grow dark around you, through your painYou’ll learn the meaning of your mercy thenTo those who blessed you as you passed them by,Nor seek to tread the untroubled road again.France.
Throughthe night-watches of our House of SighsIn capable serenity of mindYou steadily achieve the tasks designedWith calm, half-smiling, interested eyes;Though all-unknowing, confidently wiseConcerning pain you never felt, you findContent from uneventful years ariseAs you toil on, mechanically kind.So thus far have your smooth days passed, but whenThe tempest none escape shall cloud your sky,And Life grow dark around you, through your painYou’ll learn the meaning of your mercy thenTo those who blessed you as you passed them by,Nor seek to tread the untroubled road again.France.
Throughthe night-watches of our House of SighsIn capable serenity of mindYou steadily achieve the tasks designedWith calm, half-smiling, interested eyes;Though all-unknowing, confidently wiseConcerning pain you never felt, you findContent from uneventful years ariseAs you toil on, mechanically kind.
So thus far have your smooth days passed, but whenThe tempest none escape shall cloud your sky,And Life grow dark around you, through your painYou’ll learn the meaning of your mercy thenTo those who blessed you as you passed them by,Nor seek to tread the untroubled road again.
France.
I knewthat you had suffered many things,For I could see your eyes would often weepThrough bitter midnight hours when others sleep;And in your smile the lurking scorn that springsFrom cruel knowledge of a love, once deep,Grown gradually cold, until the stingsPierce mercilessly of a past that clingsUndying to your lonely path and steep.So, loved and honoured leader, I would prayThat hidden future days may hold in storeSome solace for your yearning even yet,And in some joy to come you may forgetThe burdened toil you will not suffer more,And see the War-time shadows fade away.France,1918.
I knewthat you had suffered many things,For I could see your eyes would often weepThrough bitter midnight hours when others sleep;And in your smile the lurking scorn that springsFrom cruel knowledge of a love, once deep,Grown gradually cold, until the stingsPierce mercilessly of a past that clingsUndying to your lonely path and steep.So, loved and honoured leader, I would prayThat hidden future days may hold in storeSome solace for your yearning even yet,And in some joy to come you may forgetThe burdened toil you will not suffer more,And see the War-time shadows fade away.France,1918.
I knewthat you had suffered many things,For I could see your eyes would often weepThrough bitter midnight hours when others sleep;And in your smile the lurking scorn that springsFrom cruel knowledge of a love, once deep,Grown gradually cold, until the stingsPierce mercilessly of a past that clingsUndying to your lonely path and steep.
So, loved and honoured leader, I would prayThat hidden future days may hold in storeSome solace for your yearning even yet,And in some joy to come you may forgetThe burdened toil you will not suffer more,And see the War-time shadows fade away.
France,1918.
(In Memory of the Sisters who died in the Great Air Raid upon Hospitals at Étaples)
Whoshall avenge us for anguish unnamable,Rivers of scarlet and crosses of grey,Terror of night-time and blood-lust untamable,Hate without pity where broken we lay?How could we help them, in agony calling us,Those whom we laboured to comfort and save,How still their moaning, whose hour was befalling us,Crushed in a horror more dark than the grave?Burning of canvas and smashing of wood above—Havoc of Mercy’s toil—shall He forgetUs that have fallen, Who numbers in gracious loveEach tiny creature whose life is man’s debt?Will He not hear us, though speech is now failing us—Voices too feeble to utter a cry?Shall they not answer, the foemen assailing us,Women who suffer and women who die?Who shall avenge us for anguish unnamable,Rivers of scarlet and crosses of grey,Terror of night-time and blood-lust untamable,Hate without pity where broken we lay?
Whoshall avenge us for anguish unnamable,Rivers of scarlet and crosses of grey,Terror of night-time and blood-lust untamable,Hate without pity where broken we lay?How could we help them, in agony calling us,Those whom we laboured to comfort and save,How still their moaning, whose hour was befalling us,Crushed in a horror more dark than the grave?Burning of canvas and smashing of wood above—Havoc of Mercy’s toil—shall He forgetUs that have fallen, Who numbers in gracious loveEach tiny creature whose life is man’s debt?Will He not hear us, though speech is now failing us—Voices too feeble to utter a cry?Shall they not answer, the foemen assailing us,Women who suffer and women who die?Who shall avenge us for anguish unnamable,Rivers of scarlet and crosses of grey,Terror of night-time and blood-lust untamable,Hate without pity where broken we lay?
Whoshall avenge us for anguish unnamable,Rivers of scarlet and crosses of grey,Terror of night-time and blood-lust untamable,Hate without pity where broken we lay?
How could we help them, in agony calling us,Those whom we laboured to comfort and save,How still their moaning, whose hour was befalling us,Crushed in a horror more dark than the grave?
Burning of canvas and smashing of wood above—Havoc of Mercy’s toil—shall He forgetUs that have fallen, Who numbers in gracious loveEach tiny creature whose life is man’s debt?
Will He not hear us, though speech is now failing us—Voices too feeble to utter a cry?Shall they not answer, the foemen assailing us,Women who suffer and women who die?
Who shall avenge us for anguish unnamable,Rivers of scarlet and crosses of grey,Terror of night-time and blood-lust untamable,Hate without pity where broken we lay?
(The Great German Offensive, March—May 1918)
A nightof storm and thunder crashing by,A bitter night of tempest and of rain—Then calm at dawn beneath a wind-swept sky,And broken flowers that will not bloom again.An age of Death and Agony and Tears,A cruel age of woe unguessed before—Then peace to close the weary storm-wrecked years,And broken hearts that bleed for evermore.France.
A nightof storm and thunder crashing by,A bitter night of tempest and of rain—Then calm at dawn beneath a wind-swept sky,And broken flowers that will not bloom again.An age of Death and Agony and Tears,A cruel age of woe unguessed before—Then peace to close the weary storm-wrecked years,And broken hearts that bleed for evermore.France.
A nightof storm and thunder crashing by,A bitter night of tempest and of rain—Then calm at dawn beneath a wind-swept sky,And broken flowers that will not bloom again.
An age of Death and Agony and Tears,A cruel age of woe unguessed before—Then peace to close the weary storm-wrecked years,And broken hearts that bleed for evermore.
France.
Thestars are shining bright above the camps,The bugle calls float skyward, faintly clear;Over the hill the mist-veiled motor lampsDwindle and disappear.The notes of day’s good-bye arise and blendWith the low murmurous hum from tree and sod,And swell into that question at the endThey ask each night of God—Whether the dead within the burial groundWill ever overthrow their crosses grey,And rise triumphant from each lowly moundTo greet the dawning day.Whether the eyes which battle sealed in sleepWill open to reveillé once again,And forms, once mangled, into rapture leap,Forgetful of their pain.But still the stars above the camp shine on,Giving no answer for our sorrow’s ease,And one more day with the Last Post has goneDying upon the breeze.Étaples,1918.
Thestars are shining bright above the camps,The bugle calls float skyward, faintly clear;Over the hill the mist-veiled motor lampsDwindle and disappear.The notes of day’s good-bye arise and blendWith the low murmurous hum from tree and sod,And swell into that question at the endThey ask each night of God—Whether the dead within the burial groundWill ever overthrow their crosses grey,And rise triumphant from each lowly moundTo greet the dawning day.Whether the eyes which battle sealed in sleepWill open to reveillé once again,And forms, once mangled, into rapture leap,Forgetful of their pain.But still the stars above the camp shine on,Giving no answer for our sorrow’s ease,And one more day with the Last Post has goneDying upon the breeze.Étaples,1918.
Thestars are shining bright above the camps,The bugle calls float skyward, faintly clear;Over the hill the mist-veiled motor lampsDwindle and disappear.
The notes of day’s good-bye arise and blendWith the low murmurous hum from tree and sod,And swell into that question at the endThey ask each night of God—
Whether the dead within the burial groundWill ever overthrow their crosses grey,And rise triumphant from each lowly moundTo greet the dawning day.
Whether the eyes which battle sealed in sleepWill open to reveillé once again,And forms, once mangled, into rapture leap,Forgetful of their pain.
But still the stars above the camp shine on,Giving no answer for our sorrow’s ease,And one more day with the Last Post has goneDying upon the breeze.
Étaples,1918.
(A Plea)
BecauseI dare to stand outside the gateOf that high temple wherein Fame abides,And loudly knock, too eager to awaitWhate’er betides,May God forgive, since He alone can seeThe joys that others have but I must miss,For how shall Compensation come to meIf not through this?
BecauseI dare to stand outside the gateOf that high temple wherein Fame abides,And loudly knock, too eager to awaitWhate’er betides,May God forgive, since He alone can seeThe joys that others have but I must miss,For how shall Compensation come to meIf not through this?
BecauseI dare to stand outside the gateOf that high temple wherein Fame abides,And loudly knock, too eager to awaitWhate’er betides,
May God forgive, since He alone can seeThe joys that others have but I must miss,For how shall Compensation come to meIf not through this?
Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.