Thedull dispiriting November weatherHung like a blight on town and tower and tree,Hardly was Beauty anywhere to seeSave—how fine rain (togetherWith spare last leaves of creepers once showed wetAs it were, with blood of some high-making passion,)Drifted slow and slow....But steadily aglowThe City was, beneath its grey, and setStrong-mooded above the day’s inclemency.Flaunting from houses, over the rejoicing crowd,Flags waved; that told how nation against nationShould war no more, their wounds tending awhile:—The sullen vanquished; Victors with heads bowed.And still the bells from the square towers pealed Victory,The whole time cried Victory, Victory flewBanners invisible argent; Music intangibleA glory of spirit wandered the wide air through.All knew it, nothing mean of fire or commonRan in men’s minds; none so poor but knewSome touch of sacred wonder, noble wonder,—Thought’s surface moving under;Life’s texture coarse transfiguring through and through.Joking, friendly-quarrelling, holiday-making,Eddying hither, thither, without stayThat concourse went, squibs, crackers, squibbing, cracking—Laughter gayAll common-jovial noises sounded, bugles triumphing masterful, strident, clear above all,Hail fellow, cat-call ...Yet one discernedA new spirit learnt of pain, some greatAcceptance out of hard endurance learnedAnd truly; wrested bare of hand from Fate.The soldier from his body slips the pack,Staggers, relaxes, crouches, then lies back,Glad for the end of torment. Here was more.A sense of consummation undeserved,Desire fulfilled beyond dreams, completionHumbly accepted,—a proud and grateful nationTook the reward of purpose had not swerved,But steadily beforeSaw out, with equal mind, through alternationOf hope and doubt—a four-year purge of fireChanging with soreTravail the flawed spirit, cleansing desire.And glad was I:Glad—who had seenBy Somme and Ancre too many comrades lie.It was as if the Woman’s spirit movedThat multitude, never of Man that paysSo lightly for the treasure of his days—Of some woman that too greatly had belovedYet, willing, half her care of life foregone;Best half of being losing with her son,Beloved, beautiful, born-of-agony One....The dull skies wept still. Drooped suddenlyFlags all. No triumph there.Belgium, the Stars and Stripes, Gaul, Italy,Britain, assured Mistress, Queen of the Sea,Forlorn colours showed; rags glory-bare.Night came, starless, to blur all things overThat strange assort of Life;Sister, and lover,Brother, child, wife,Parent—each with his thought, careless or passioned,Of those who gave their frames of flesh to coverFrom spoil their land and folk, desperately fashionedFate stubborn to their will.Rain fell, miserably, miserably, and stillThe strange crowd clamoured till late, eddied, clamoured,Mixed, mused, drifted.... The Day of Victory.
Thedull dispiriting November weatherHung like a blight on town and tower and tree,Hardly was Beauty anywhere to seeSave—how fine rain (togetherWith spare last leaves of creepers once showed wetAs it were, with blood of some high-making passion,)Drifted slow and slow....But steadily aglowThe City was, beneath its grey, and setStrong-mooded above the day’s inclemency.Flaunting from houses, over the rejoicing crowd,Flags waved; that told how nation against nationShould war no more, their wounds tending awhile:—The sullen vanquished; Victors with heads bowed.And still the bells from the square towers pealed Victory,The whole time cried Victory, Victory flewBanners invisible argent; Music intangibleA glory of spirit wandered the wide air through.All knew it, nothing mean of fire or commonRan in men’s minds; none so poor but knewSome touch of sacred wonder, noble wonder,—Thought’s surface moving under;Life’s texture coarse transfiguring through and through.Joking, friendly-quarrelling, holiday-making,Eddying hither, thither, without stayThat concourse went, squibs, crackers, squibbing, cracking—Laughter gayAll common-jovial noises sounded, bugles triumphing masterful, strident, clear above all,Hail fellow, cat-call ...Yet one discernedA new spirit learnt of pain, some greatAcceptance out of hard endurance learnedAnd truly; wrested bare of hand from Fate.The soldier from his body slips the pack,Staggers, relaxes, crouches, then lies back,Glad for the end of torment. Here was more.A sense of consummation undeserved,Desire fulfilled beyond dreams, completionHumbly accepted,—a proud and grateful nationTook the reward of purpose had not swerved,But steadily beforeSaw out, with equal mind, through alternationOf hope and doubt—a four-year purge of fireChanging with soreTravail the flawed spirit, cleansing desire.And glad was I:Glad—who had seenBy Somme and Ancre too many comrades lie.It was as if the Woman’s spirit movedThat multitude, never of Man that paysSo lightly for the treasure of his days—Of some woman that too greatly had belovedYet, willing, half her care of life foregone;Best half of being losing with her son,Beloved, beautiful, born-of-agony One....The dull skies wept still. Drooped suddenlyFlags all. No triumph there.Belgium, the Stars and Stripes, Gaul, Italy,Britain, assured Mistress, Queen of the Sea,Forlorn colours showed; rags glory-bare.Night came, starless, to blur all things overThat strange assort of Life;Sister, and lover,Brother, child, wife,Parent—each with his thought, careless or passioned,Of those who gave their frames of flesh to coverFrom spoil their land and folk, desperately fashionedFate stubborn to their will.Rain fell, miserably, miserably, and stillThe strange crowd clamoured till late, eddied, clamoured,Mixed, mused, drifted.... The Day of Victory.
Thedull dispiriting November weatherHung like a blight on town and tower and tree,Hardly was Beauty anywhere to seeSave—how fine rain (togetherWith spare last leaves of creepers once showed wetAs it were, with blood of some high-making passion,)Drifted slow and slow....But steadily aglowThe City was, beneath its grey, and setStrong-mooded above the day’s inclemency.
Flaunting from houses, over the rejoicing crowd,Flags waved; that told how nation against nationShould war no more, their wounds tending awhile:—The sullen vanquished; Victors with heads bowed.And still the bells from the square towers pealed Victory,The whole time cried Victory, Victory flewBanners invisible argent; Music intangibleA glory of spirit wandered the wide air through.All knew it, nothing mean of fire or commonRan in men’s minds; none so poor but knewSome touch of sacred wonder, noble wonder,—Thought’s surface moving under;Life’s texture coarse transfiguring through and through.
Joking, friendly-quarrelling, holiday-making,Eddying hither, thither, without stayThat concourse went, squibs, crackers, squibbing, cracking—Laughter gayAll common-jovial noises sounded, bugles triumphing masterful, strident, clear above all,Hail fellow, cat-call ...Yet one discernedA new spirit learnt of pain, some greatAcceptance out of hard endurance learnedAnd truly; wrested bare of hand from Fate.The soldier from his body slips the pack,Staggers, relaxes, crouches, then lies back,Glad for the end of torment. Here was more.
A sense of consummation undeserved,Desire fulfilled beyond dreams, completionHumbly accepted,—a proud and grateful nationTook the reward of purpose had not swerved,But steadily beforeSaw out, with equal mind, through alternationOf hope and doubt—a four-year purge of fireChanging with soreTravail the flawed spirit, cleansing desire.
And glad was I:Glad—who had seenBy Somme and Ancre too many comrades lie.It was as if the Woman’s spirit movedThat multitude, never of Man that paysSo lightly for the treasure of his days—Of some woman that too greatly had belovedYet, willing, half her care of life foregone;Best half of being losing with her son,Beloved, beautiful, born-of-agony One....
The dull skies wept still. Drooped suddenlyFlags all. No triumph there.Belgium, the Stars and Stripes, Gaul, Italy,Britain, assured Mistress, Queen of the Sea,Forlorn colours showed; rags glory-bare.Night came, starless, to blur all things overThat strange assort of Life;Sister, and lover,Brother, child, wife,Parent—each with his thought, careless or passioned,Of those who gave their frames of flesh to coverFrom spoil their land and folk, desperately fashionedFate stubborn to their will.
Rain fell, miserably, miserably, and stillThe strange crowd clamoured till late, eddied, clamoured,Mixed, mused, drifted.... The Day of Victory.
Wherethe new-turned ploughland runs to cleanEdges of sudden grass-land, lovely, green—Music, music clings, music exhales,And inmost fragrance of a thousand tales.There the heart lifts, the soul takes flight to singHigh at Heaven-gate; but loth for enteringLest there such brown and green it never find;Nor feel the stingOf such a beauty left so far behind.
Wherethe new-turned ploughland runs to cleanEdges of sudden grass-land, lovely, green—Music, music clings, music exhales,And inmost fragrance of a thousand tales.There the heart lifts, the soul takes flight to singHigh at Heaven-gate; but loth for enteringLest there such brown and green it never find;Nor feel the stingOf such a beauty left so far behind.
Wherethe new-turned ploughland runs to cleanEdges of sudden grass-land, lovely, green—Music, music clings, music exhales,And inmost fragrance of a thousand tales.There the heart lifts, the soul takes flight to singHigh at Heaven-gate; but loth for enteringLest there such brown and green it never find;Nor feel the stingOf such a beauty left so far behind.
A tallslim poplarThat dances inA hidden cornerOf the old garden,What is it in youMakes communionWith this wind of Autumn,The clouds, the sun?You must be lonelyAmidst round treesWith their matron-figuresAnd stubborn knees,Casting hard glancesOf keen despiteOn the lone girl that dancesSilvery white.But you are dearerTo sky and earthThan lime-trees, plane-treesOf meaner birth.Your sweet shy beautyDearer to usThan tree-folk, worthy,Censorious.
A tallslim poplarThat dances inA hidden cornerOf the old garden,What is it in youMakes communionWith this wind of Autumn,The clouds, the sun?You must be lonelyAmidst round treesWith their matron-figuresAnd stubborn knees,Casting hard glancesOf keen despiteOn the lone girl that dancesSilvery white.But you are dearerTo sky and earthThan lime-trees, plane-treesOf meaner birth.Your sweet shy beautyDearer to usThan tree-folk, worthy,Censorious.
A tallslim poplarThat dances inA hidden cornerOf the old garden,What is it in youMakes communionWith this wind of Autumn,The clouds, the sun?
You must be lonelyAmidst round treesWith their matron-figuresAnd stubborn knees,Casting hard glancesOf keen despiteOn the lone girl that dancesSilvery white.
But you are dearerTo sky and earthThan lime-trees, plane-treesOf meaner birth.Your sweet shy beautyDearer to usThan tree-folk, worthy,Censorious.
WhenI was small and packed with tales of desert islands farMy mother took me walking in a grey ugly street,But there the sea-wind met us with a jolly smell of tar,A sailorman went past to town with slow rolling gait;And Gloucester she’s famous in story.The trees and shining sky of June were good enough to see,Better than books or any tales the sailormen might tell—But tops’le spars against the blue made fairyland for me;The snorting tug made surges like the huge Atlantic swell.And Gloucester she’s famous in story.Then thought I, how much better to sail the open seasThan sit in school at spelling-books or sums of grocers’ wares.And I’d have knelt for pity at any captain’s kneesTo go see the banyan tree or white Arctic bears.And Gloucester she’s famous in story.O Gloucester men about the world that dare the seas to-day,Remember little boys at school a-studying their bestTo hide somehow from Mother, and get clear awayTo where the flag of England flies prouder than the rest.And Gloucester she’s famous in story.
WhenI was small and packed with tales of desert islands farMy mother took me walking in a grey ugly street,But there the sea-wind met us with a jolly smell of tar,A sailorman went past to town with slow rolling gait;And Gloucester she’s famous in story.The trees and shining sky of June were good enough to see,Better than books or any tales the sailormen might tell—But tops’le spars against the blue made fairyland for me;The snorting tug made surges like the huge Atlantic swell.And Gloucester she’s famous in story.Then thought I, how much better to sail the open seasThan sit in school at spelling-books or sums of grocers’ wares.And I’d have knelt for pity at any captain’s kneesTo go see the banyan tree or white Arctic bears.And Gloucester she’s famous in story.O Gloucester men about the world that dare the seas to-day,Remember little boys at school a-studying their bestTo hide somehow from Mother, and get clear awayTo where the flag of England flies prouder than the rest.And Gloucester she’s famous in story.
WhenI was small and packed with tales of desert islands farMy mother took me walking in a grey ugly street,But there the sea-wind met us with a jolly smell of tar,A sailorman went past to town with slow rolling gait;And Gloucester she’s famous in story.
The trees and shining sky of June were good enough to see,Better than books or any tales the sailormen might tell—But tops’le spars against the blue made fairyland for me;The snorting tug made surges like the huge Atlantic swell.And Gloucester she’s famous in story.
Then thought I, how much better to sail the open seasThan sit in school at spelling-books or sums of grocers’ wares.And I’d have knelt for pity at any captain’s kneesTo go see the banyan tree or white Arctic bears.And Gloucester she’s famous in story.
O Gloucester men about the world that dare the seas to-day,Remember little boys at school a-studying their bestTo hide somehow from Mother, and get clear awayTo where the flag of England flies prouder than the rest.And Gloucester she’s famous in story.
O smalldear things for which we fight—Red roofs, ricks crowned with early gold,Orchards that hedges thick enfold—O visit us in dreams to-night!Who watch the stars through broken wallsAnd ragged roofs, that you may beStill kept our own and proudly freeWhile Severn from the Welsh height falls.
O smalldear things for which we fight—Red roofs, ricks crowned with early gold,Orchards that hedges thick enfold—O visit us in dreams to-night!Who watch the stars through broken wallsAnd ragged roofs, that you may beStill kept our own and proudly freeWhile Severn from the Welsh height falls.
O smalldear things for which we fight—Red roofs, ricks crowned with early gold,Orchards that hedges thick enfold—O visit us in dreams to-night!
Who watch the stars through broken wallsAnd ragged roofs, that you may beStill kept our own and proudly freeWhile Severn from the Welsh height falls.
Afterthe biting cold of the outer nightIt seemed—(“Le Coq Français”)—a palace of light,And its low roof black-timbered was most fineAfter the iron and sandbags of the line.Easy it was to be happy there! Madame,Frying a savoury mess of eggs and ham,Talking the while: of the War, of the crops, her sonWho should see to them, and would, when the War was done.Of battalions who had passed there, happy as weTo find a house so clean, such courtesySimple, sincere; after vigils of frostThe place seemed the seventh Heaven of comfort; lostIn miraculous strange peace and warmth we’d sitTill the prowling police hunted us out of it—Away from café noir, café au lait, vin blanc,Vin rouge, citron, all that does belongTo the kindly shelter of old estaminets,Nooked and cornered, with mirth of firelight ablaze—Herded us into billets; where candles must showLittle enough comfort after the steady glowOf that wonderful fireshine. We must huddle us closeIn blankets, hiding all but the crimson nose,To think awhile of home, if the frost would letThought flow at all; then sleep, sleep to forgetAll but home and old rambles, lovely daysOf maiden April, glamorous September haze,All darling things of life, the sweet of desire—Castles of Spain in the deep heart of the fire.
Afterthe biting cold of the outer nightIt seemed—(“Le Coq Français”)—a palace of light,And its low roof black-timbered was most fineAfter the iron and sandbags of the line.Easy it was to be happy there! Madame,Frying a savoury mess of eggs and ham,Talking the while: of the War, of the crops, her sonWho should see to them, and would, when the War was done.Of battalions who had passed there, happy as weTo find a house so clean, such courtesySimple, sincere; after vigils of frostThe place seemed the seventh Heaven of comfort; lostIn miraculous strange peace and warmth we’d sitTill the prowling police hunted us out of it—Away from café noir, café au lait, vin blanc,Vin rouge, citron, all that does belongTo the kindly shelter of old estaminets,Nooked and cornered, with mirth of firelight ablaze—Herded us into billets; where candles must showLittle enough comfort after the steady glowOf that wonderful fireshine. We must huddle us closeIn blankets, hiding all but the crimson nose,To think awhile of home, if the frost would letThought flow at all; then sleep, sleep to forgetAll but home and old rambles, lovely daysOf maiden April, glamorous September haze,All darling things of life, the sweet of desire—Castles of Spain in the deep heart of the fire.
Afterthe biting cold of the outer nightIt seemed—(“Le Coq Français”)—a palace of light,And its low roof black-timbered was most fineAfter the iron and sandbags of the line.Easy it was to be happy there! Madame,Frying a savoury mess of eggs and ham,Talking the while: of the War, of the crops, her sonWho should see to them, and would, when the War was done.Of battalions who had passed there, happy as weTo find a house so clean, such courtesySimple, sincere; after vigils of frostThe place seemed the seventh Heaven of comfort; lostIn miraculous strange peace and warmth we’d sitTill the prowling police hunted us out of it—Away from café noir, café au lait, vin blanc,Vin rouge, citron, all that does belongTo the kindly shelter of old estaminets,Nooked and cornered, with mirth of firelight ablaze—Herded us into billets; where candles must showLittle enough comfort after the steady glowOf that wonderful fireshine. We must huddle us closeIn blankets, hiding all but the crimson nose,To think awhile of home, if the frost would letThought flow at all; then sleep, sleep to forgetAll but home and old rambles, lovely daysOf maiden April, glamorous September haze,All darling things of life, the sweet of desire—Castles of Spain in the deep heart of the fire.
WhenI was a boy at Newnham,For every tide that ranSwift on its way to Bollo,I wished I were a manTo sail out and discoverWhere such a tide began.But when my strength came on me’Tis I must earn my bread:My Father set me fishingBy Frampton Hock, insteadOf wandering to the ocean—Wherever Severn led.And now I’ve come to manhood,Too many cares have ITo think of gallivanting(A wife and child forbye).So I must wonder everUntil time comes to die.Then I shall question PeterUpon the heavenly floor,What makes the tide in rivers—How comes the Severn bore,And all things he will tell meI never knew before.
WhenI was a boy at Newnham,For every tide that ranSwift on its way to Bollo,I wished I were a manTo sail out and discoverWhere such a tide began.But when my strength came on me’Tis I must earn my bread:My Father set me fishingBy Frampton Hock, insteadOf wandering to the ocean—Wherever Severn led.And now I’ve come to manhood,Too many cares have ITo think of gallivanting(A wife and child forbye).So I must wonder everUntil time comes to die.Then I shall question PeterUpon the heavenly floor,What makes the tide in rivers—How comes the Severn bore,And all things he will tell meI never knew before.
WhenI was a boy at Newnham,For every tide that ranSwift on its way to Bollo,I wished I were a manTo sail out and discoverWhere such a tide began.
But when my strength came on me’Tis I must earn my bread:My Father set me fishingBy Frampton Hock, insteadOf wandering to the ocean—Wherever Severn led.
And now I’ve come to manhood,Too many cares have ITo think of gallivanting(A wife and child forbye).So I must wonder everUntil time comes to die.
Then I shall question PeterUpon the heavenly floor,What makes the tide in rivers—How comes the Severn bore,And all things he will tell meI never knew before.
A talllean man he was, proud of his gun,Of his garden, and small fruit trees every oneKnowing all weather signs, the flight of birds,Farther than I could hear the falling thirdsOf the first cuckoo. Able at digging, heSmoked his pipe ever, furiously, contentedly.Full of old country tales his memory was;Yarns of both sea and land, full of wise sawsIn rough fine speech; sayings his father had,That worked a twelve-hour day when but a lad.Handy with timber, nothing came amissTo his quick skill; and all the mysteriesOf sail-making, net-making, boat-building were his.That dark face lit with bright bird-eyes, his strideManner most friendly courteous, stubborn pride,I shall not forget, not yet his patienceWith me, unapt, though many a far league henceI’ll travel for many a year, nor ever findA winter-night companion more to my mind,Nor one more wise in ways of Severn river,Though her villages I search for ever and ever.
A talllean man he was, proud of his gun,Of his garden, and small fruit trees every oneKnowing all weather signs, the flight of birds,Farther than I could hear the falling thirdsOf the first cuckoo. Able at digging, heSmoked his pipe ever, furiously, contentedly.Full of old country tales his memory was;Yarns of both sea and land, full of wise sawsIn rough fine speech; sayings his father had,That worked a twelve-hour day when but a lad.Handy with timber, nothing came amissTo his quick skill; and all the mysteriesOf sail-making, net-making, boat-building were his.That dark face lit with bright bird-eyes, his strideManner most friendly courteous, stubborn pride,I shall not forget, not yet his patienceWith me, unapt, though many a far league henceI’ll travel for many a year, nor ever findA winter-night companion more to my mind,Nor one more wise in ways of Severn river,Though her villages I search for ever and ever.
A talllean man he was, proud of his gun,Of his garden, and small fruit trees every oneKnowing all weather signs, the flight of birds,Farther than I could hear the falling thirdsOf the first cuckoo. Able at digging, heSmoked his pipe ever, furiously, contentedly.Full of old country tales his memory was;Yarns of both sea and land, full of wise sawsIn rough fine speech; sayings his father had,That worked a twelve-hour day when but a lad.Handy with timber, nothing came amissTo his quick skill; and all the mysteriesOf sail-making, net-making, boat-building were his.That dark face lit with bright bird-eyes, his strideManner most friendly courteous, stubborn pride,I shall not forget, not yet his patienceWith me, unapt, though many a far league henceI’ll travel for many a year, nor ever findA winter-night companion more to my mind,Nor one more wise in ways of Severn river,Though her villages I search for ever and ever.
I sawa silver-bright shield hangEntangled in the topmost boughsOf an old elm-tree, and a houseDreaming; the while a small stream sangA tune of broken silver by,And laughed and wondered at the sky.A thousand thousand silver lampsDared the bright moon of stars. O! who,Wandering that silver quiet through,Might heed the river-mists, dew-damps?All Heaven exulted, but Earth layBreathless and tranced in peace alway.From the orange-windowed tavern nearA song some ancient lover had—When stars and longing made him mad—Fashioned from wonder at his dear,Rang out. Yet none there moves a limbTo see such stars as passioned him.The loth moon left the twigs and gazedFull-fronted at the road, the stream,That all but tiniest tunes adreamStilled, held breath at last amazed.The farmers from their revel came;But no stars saw, and felt no flame.
I sawa silver-bright shield hangEntangled in the topmost boughsOf an old elm-tree, and a houseDreaming; the while a small stream sangA tune of broken silver by,And laughed and wondered at the sky.A thousand thousand silver lampsDared the bright moon of stars. O! who,Wandering that silver quiet through,Might heed the river-mists, dew-damps?All Heaven exulted, but Earth layBreathless and tranced in peace alway.From the orange-windowed tavern nearA song some ancient lover had—When stars and longing made him mad—Fashioned from wonder at his dear,Rang out. Yet none there moves a limbTo see such stars as passioned him.The loth moon left the twigs and gazedFull-fronted at the road, the stream,That all but tiniest tunes adreamStilled, held breath at last amazed.The farmers from their revel came;But no stars saw, and felt no flame.
I sawa silver-bright shield hangEntangled in the topmost boughsOf an old elm-tree, and a houseDreaming; the while a small stream sangA tune of broken silver by,And laughed and wondered at the sky.
A thousand thousand silver lampsDared the bright moon of stars. O! who,Wandering that silver quiet through,Might heed the river-mists, dew-damps?All Heaven exulted, but Earth layBreathless and tranced in peace alway.
From the orange-windowed tavern nearA song some ancient lover had—When stars and longing made him mad—Fashioned from wonder at his dear,Rang out. Yet none there moves a limbTo see such stars as passioned him.
The loth moon left the twigs and gazedFull-fronted at the road, the stream,That all but tiniest tunes adreamStilled, held breath at last amazed.The farmers from their revel came;But no stars saw, and felt no flame.
Thehigh barn’s lit by many a guttering flareOf flickering candle, dangerous—(hence forbidden)—To warm soft straw, whereby the cold floor’s hidden,On which we soon shall rest without a care.War is forgotten. Gossip fills the airOf home, and laughter sounds beyond the middenUnder the stars, where Youth makes Joy unchiddenOf gods or men, and mocks at sorrow there.But hark! what sudden pure untainted passionSeizes us now, and stills the garrulous?A song of old immortal dedicationTo Beauty’s service and one woman’s heart.No tears we show, no sign of flame in usThis hour of stars and music set apart.
Thehigh barn’s lit by many a guttering flareOf flickering candle, dangerous—(hence forbidden)—To warm soft straw, whereby the cold floor’s hidden,On which we soon shall rest without a care.War is forgotten. Gossip fills the airOf home, and laughter sounds beyond the middenUnder the stars, where Youth makes Joy unchiddenOf gods or men, and mocks at sorrow there.But hark! what sudden pure untainted passionSeizes us now, and stills the garrulous?A song of old immortal dedicationTo Beauty’s service and one woman’s heart.No tears we show, no sign of flame in usThis hour of stars and music set apart.
Thehigh barn’s lit by many a guttering flareOf flickering candle, dangerous—(hence forbidden)—To warm soft straw, whereby the cold floor’s hidden,On which we soon shall rest without a care.War is forgotten. Gossip fills the airOf home, and laughter sounds beyond the middenUnder the stars, where Youth makes Joy unchiddenOf gods or men, and mocks at sorrow there.But hark! what sudden pure untainted passionSeizes us now, and stills the garrulous?A song of old immortal dedicationTo Beauty’s service and one woman’s heart.No tears we show, no sign of flame in usThis hour of stars and music set apart.
Walkingthe village street, to watch the stars and findSome peace like the old peace, some soothe for soul and mind;The noise of laughter strikes me as I move on my wayTowards England—Westward—and the last glow of day.And here is the end of houses. I turn on my heel,And stay where those voices a moment made me feelAs I were on Cotswold, with nothing else to doThan stare at the old houses, to taste the night-dew;To answer friendly greetings from rough voices kind....Oh, one may try for ever to be calm and resigned,A red blind at evening sets the poor heart on fire—Or a child’s face, a sunset—with the old hot desire.
Walkingthe village street, to watch the stars and findSome peace like the old peace, some soothe for soul and mind;The noise of laughter strikes me as I move on my wayTowards England—Westward—and the last glow of day.And here is the end of houses. I turn on my heel,And stay where those voices a moment made me feelAs I were on Cotswold, with nothing else to doThan stare at the old houses, to taste the night-dew;To answer friendly greetings from rough voices kind....Oh, one may try for ever to be calm and resigned,A red blind at evening sets the poor heart on fire—Or a child’s face, a sunset—with the old hot desire.
Walkingthe village street, to watch the stars and findSome peace like the old peace, some soothe for soul and mind;The noise of laughter strikes me as I move on my wayTowards England—Westward—and the last glow of day.
And here is the end of houses. I turn on my heel,And stay where those voices a moment made me feelAs I were on Cotswold, with nothing else to doThan stare at the old houses, to taste the night-dew;
To answer friendly greetings from rough voices kind....Oh, one may try for ever to be calm and resigned,A red blind at evening sets the poor heart on fire—Or a child’s face, a sunset—with the old hot desire.
Lyingin dug-outs, joking idly, wearily;Watching the candle guttering in the draught;Hearing the great shells go high over us, eerilySinging; how often have I turned over, and laughedWith pity and pride, photographs of all colours,All sizes, subjects: khaki brothers in France;Or mothers’ faces worn with countless dolours;Or girls whose eyes were challenging and must dance,Though in a picture only, a common cheapIll-taken card; and children—frozen, some(Babies) waiting on Dicky-bird to peepOut of the handkerchief that is his home(But he’s so shy!). And some with bright looks, callingDelight across the miles of land and sea,That not the dread of barrage suddenly fallingCould quite blot out—not mud nor lethargy.Smiles and triumphant careless laughter. OThe pain of them, wide Earth’s most sacred things!Lying in dugouts, hearing the great shells slowSailing mile-high, the heart mounts higher and sings.But once—O why did he keep that bitter tokenOf a dead Love?—that boy, who, suddenly moved,Showed me, his eyes wet, his low talk broken,A girl who better had not been beloved.
Lyingin dug-outs, joking idly, wearily;Watching the candle guttering in the draught;Hearing the great shells go high over us, eerilySinging; how often have I turned over, and laughedWith pity and pride, photographs of all colours,All sizes, subjects: khaki brothers in France;Or mothers’ faces worn with countless dolours;Or girls whose eyes were challenging and must dance,Though in a picture only, a common cheapIll-taken card; and children—frozen, some(Babies) waiting on Dicky-bird to peepOut of the handkerchief that is his home(But he’s so shy!). And some with bright looks, callingDelight across the miles of land and sea,That not the dread of barrage suddenly fallingCould quite blot out—not mud nor lethargy.Smiles and triumphant careless laughter. OThe pain of them, wide Earth’s most sacred things!Lying in dugouts, hearing the great shells slowSailing mile-high, the heart mounts higher and sings.But once—O why did he keep that bitter tokenOf a dead Love?—that boy, who, suddenly moved,Showed me, his eyes wet, his low talk broken,A girl who better had not been beloved.
Lyingin dug-outs, joking idly, wearily;Watching the candle guttering in the draught;Hearing the great shells go high over us, eerilySinging; how often have I turned over, and laughed
With pity and pride, photographs of all colours,All sizes, subjects: khaki brothers in France;Or mothers’ faces worn with countless dolours;Or girls whose eyes were challenging and must dance,
Though in a picture only, a common cheapIll-taken card; and children—frozen, some(Babies) waiting on Dicky-bird to peepOut of the handkerchief that is his home
(But he’s so shy!). And some with bright looks, callingDelight across the miles of land and sea,That not the dread of barrage suddenly fallingCould quite blot out—not mud nor lethargy.
Smiles and triumphant careless laughter. OThe pain of them, wide Earth’s most sacred things!Lying in dugouts, hearing the great shells slowSailing mile-high, the heart mounts higher and sings.
But once—O why did he keep that bitter tokenOf a dead Love?—that boy, who, suddenly moved,Showed me, his eyes wet, his low talk broken,A girl who better had not been beloved.
Goup, go up your ways of varying love,Take each his darling path wherever lieThe central fires of secret memory;Whether Helvellyn tower the lakes above;Or black Plinlimmon time and tempest prove;Or any English heights of bravery.I will go climb my little hills to seeSevern, and Malverns, May Hill’s tiny grove.No Everest is here, no peaks of powerAstonish men. But on the winding waysWhite in the frost-time, blinding in full June blaze,A man may take all quiet heart’s delight—Village and quarry, taverns and many a towerThat saw Armada beacons set alight.
Goup, go up your ways of varying love,Take each his darling path wherever lieThe central fires of secret memory;Whether Helvellyn tower the lakes above;Or black Plinlimmon time and tempest prove;Or any English heights of bravery.I will go climb my little hills to seeSevern, and Malverns, May Hill’s tiny grove.No Everest is here, no peaks of powerAstonish men. But on the winding waysWhite in the frost-time, blinding in full June blaze,A man may take all quiet heart’s delight—Village and quarry, taverns and many a towerThat saw Armada beacons set alight.
Goup, go up your ways of varying love,Take each his darling path wherever lieThe central fires of secret memory;Whether Helvellyn tower the lakes above;Or black Plinlimmon time and tempest prove;Or any English heights of bravery.I will go climb my little hills to seeSevern, and Malverns, May Hill’s tiny grove.
No Everest is here, no peaks of powerAstonish men. But on the winding waysWhite in the frost-time, blinding in full June blaze,A man may take all quiet heart’s delight—Village and quarry, taverns and many a towerThat saw Armada beacons set alight.
Tostraight the back, how good; to see the slowDispersed cloud-flocks of Heaven wandering blindWithout a shepherd, feel caress the kindSweet August air, soft drifting to and froMeadow and arable.—Leaning on my hoeI searched for any beauty eyes might find.The tossing wood showed silver in the wind;Green hills drowsed wakeful in the golden glow.Yet all the air was loud with mutterings,Rumours of trouble strange in that rich peace,Where War’s dread birds must practise without ceaseAll that the stoutest pilot-heart might dare.Death over dreaming life managed his wings,Droning dull song in the sun-satiate air.
Tostraight the back, how good; to see the slowDispersed cloud-flocks of Heaven wandering blindWithout a shepherd, feel caress the kindSweet August air, soft drifting to and froMeadow and arable.—Leaning on my hoeI searched for any beauty eyes might find.The tossing wood showed silver in the wind;Green hills drowsed wakeful in the golden glow.Yet all the air was loud with mutterings,Rumours of trouble strange in that rich peace,Where War’s dread birds must practise without ceaseAll that the stoutest pilot-heart might dare.Death over dreaming life managed his wings,Droning dull song in the sun-satiate air.
Tostraight the back, how good; to see the slowDispersed cloud-flocks of Heaven wandering blindWithout a shepherd, feel caress the kindSweet August air, soft drifting to and froMeadow and arable.—Leaning on my hoeI searched for any beauty eyes might find.The tossing wood showed silver in the wind;Green hills drowsed wakeful in the golden glow.
Yet all the air was loud with mutterings,Rumours of trouble strange in that rich peace,Where War’s dread birds must practise without ceaseAll that the stoutest pilot-heart might dare.Death over dreaming life managed his wings,Droning dull song in the sun-satiate air.
Ifonly this fear would leave me I could dream of Crickley HillAnd a hundred thousand thoughts of home would visit my heart in sleep;But here the peace is shattered all day by the devil’s will,And the guns bark night-long to spoil the velvet silence deep.O who could think that once we drank in quiet inns and coolAnd saw brown oxen trooping the dry sands to slakeTheir thirst at the river flowing, or plunged in a silver poolTo shake the sleepy drowse off before well awake?We are stale here, we are covered body and soul and mindWith mire of the trenches, close clinging and foul.We have left our old inheritance, our Paradise behind,And clarity is lost to us and cleanness of soul.O blow here, you dusk-airs and breaths of half-light,And comfort despairs of your darlings that longNight and day for sound of your bells, or a sightOf your tree-bordered lanes, land of blossom and song.Autumn will be here soon, but the road of coloured leavesIs not for us, the up and down highway where goEarth’s pilgrims to wonder where Malvern upheavesThat blue-emerald splendour under great clouds of snow.Some day we’ll fill in trenches, level the land and turnOnce more joyful faces to the country where treesBear thickly for good drink, where strong sunsets burnHuge bonfires of glory—O God, send us peace!Hard it is for men of moors or fens to endureExile and hardship, or the Northland grey-drear;But we of the rich plain of sweet airs and pure,Oh! Death would take so much from us, how should we not fear?
Ifonly this fear would leave me I could dream of Crickley HillAnd a hundred thousand thoughts of home would visit my heart in sleep;But here the peace is shattered all day by the devil’s will,And the guns bark night-long to spoil the velvet silence deep.O who could think that once we drank in quiet inns and coolAnd saw brown oxen trooping the dry sands to slakeTheir thirst at the river flowing, or plunged in a silver poolTo shake the sleepy drowse off before well awake?We are stale here, we are covered body and soul and mindWith mire of the trenches, close clinging and foul.We have left our old inheritance, our Paradise behind,And clarity is lost to us and cleanness of soul.O blow here, you dusk-airs and breaths of half-light,And comfort despairs of your darlings that longNight and day for sound of your bells, or a sightOf your tree-bordered lanes, land of blossom and song.Autumn will be here soon, but the road of coloured leavesIs not for us, the up and down highway where goEarth’s pilgrims to wonder where Malvern upheavesThat blue-emerald splendour under great clouds of snow.Some day we’ll fill in trenches, level the land and turnOnce more joyful faces to the country where treesBear thickly for good drink, where strong sunsets burnHuge bonfires of glory—O God, send us peace!Hard it is for men of moors or fens to endureExile and hardship, or the Northland grey-drear;But we of the rich plain of sweet airs and pure,Oh! Death would take so much from us, how should we not fear?
Ifonly this fear would leave me I could dream of Crickley HillAnd a hundred thousand thoughts of home would visit my heart in sleep;But here the peace is shattered all day by the devil’s will,And the guns bark night-long to spoil the velvet silence deep.
O who could think that once we drank in quiet inns and coolAnd saw brown oxen trooping the dry sands to slakeTheir thirst at the river flowing, or plunged in a silver poolTo shake the sleepy drowse off before well awake?
We are stale here, we are covered body and soul and mindWith mire of the trenches, close clinging and foul.We have left our old inheritance, our Paradise behind,And clarity is lost to us and cleanness of soul.
O blow here, you dusk-airs and breaths of half-light,And comfort despairs of your darlings that longNight and day for sound of your bells, or a sightOf your tree-bordered lanes, land of blossom and song.
Autumn will be here soon, but the road of coloured leavesIs not for us, the up and down highway where goEarth’s pilgrims to wonder where Malvern upheavesThat blue-emerald splendour under great clouds of snow.
Some day we’ll fill in trenches, level the land and turnOnce more joyful faces to the country where treesBear thickly for good drink, where strong sunsets burnHuge bonfires of glory—O God, send us peace!
Hard it is for men of moors or fens to endureExile and hardship, or the Northland grey-drear;But we of the rich plain of sweet airs and pure,Oh! Death would take so much from us, how should we not fear?
Onthe old road of Roman, on the roadOf chivalry and pride—the path to WalesFamed in the chronicles and full of tales—Westward I went, songs in my mouth, and strodeFree-bodied, light of heart,Past many a heaped waggon with golden load,And rumbling carrier’s cart.When, near the bridge where snorting trains go underWith noise of thunder,I turned and sawA tower stand, like an immortal law—Permanent, past the reach of Time and Change,Yet fair and fresh as any flower wild blown;As delicate, as fairAs any highest tiny cloudlet sownFaint in the upper air.Fragile yet strong, a music that vision seemed.Though all the land was fair, let the eye rangeWhither it willOn plain or hill,It must return where white the tower gleamedWonderful, irresistible, bubble-brightIn the morning light.And then I knew, I knew why men must chooseRather the dangerous path of arms than letBeauty be brokenThat is God’s token,The sign of Him; why hearts of courage forgetAught but the need supremeTo follow honour and the perilous thing:Scorning Death’s sting;Knowing Man’s faith not founded on a dream.
Onthe old road of Roman, on the roadOf chivalry and pride—the path to WalesFamed in the chronicles and full of tales—Westward I went, songs in my mouth, and strodeFree-bodied, light of heart,Past many a heaped waggon with golden load,And rumbling carrier’s cart.When, near the bridge where snorting trains go underWith noise of thunder,I turned and sawA tower stand, like an immortal law—Permanent, past the reach of Time and Change,Yet fair and fresh as any flower wild blown;As delicate, as fairAs any highest tiny cloudlet sownFaint in the upper air.Fragile yet strong, a music that vision seemed.Though all the land was fair, let the eye rangeWhither it willOn plain or hill,It must return where white the tower gleamedWonderful, irresistible, bubble-brightIn the morning light.And then I knew, I knew why men must chooseRather the dangerous path of arms than letBeauty be brokenThat is God’s token,The sign of Him; why hearts of courage forgetAught but the need supremeTo follow honour and the perilous thing:Scorning Death’s sting;Knowing Man’s faith not founded on a dream.
Onthe old road of Roman, on the roadOf chivalry and pride—the path to WalesFamed in the chronicles and full of tales—Westward I went, songs in my mouth, and strodeFree-bodied, light of heart,Past many a heaped waggon with golden load,And rumbling carrier’s cart.When, near the bridge where snorting trains go underWith noise of thunder,I turned and sawA tower stand, like an immortal law—
Permanent, past the reach of Time and Change,Yet fair and fresh as any flower wild blown;As delicate, as fairAs any highest tiny cloudlet sownFaint in the upper air.Fragile yet strong, a music that vision seemed.Though all the land was fair, let the eye rangeWhither it willOn plain or hill,It must return where white the tower gleamedWonderful, irresistible, bubble-brightIn the morning light.
And then I knew, I knew why men must chooseRather the dangerous path of arms than letBeauty be brokenThat is God’s token,The sign of Him; why hearts of courage forgetAught but the need supremeTo follow honour and the perilous thing:Scorning Death’s sting;Knowing Man’s faith not founded on a dream.
Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.