The Project Gutenberg eBook of War's Embers, and Other Verses

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Title: War's Embers, and Other Verses

Author: Ivor Gurney

Release date: November 26, 2020 [eBook #63882]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
available at The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WAR'S EMBERS, AND OTHER VERSES ***

{4} 

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

SEVERN AND SOMME, 1917

{5} 

WAR’S EMBERS
AND OTHER VERSES

BY
IVOR GURNEY

London: SIDGWICK & JACKSON, LTD.
3 ADAM STREET, ADELPHI, W.C.2. 1919
{6}

First published in 1919

All rights reserved
{7}

TO

M. M. S.

O, if my wishes were my power,
 You should be praised as were most fit,
 Whose kindness cannot help but flower.
But since the fates have ordered it
 Otherwise, then ere the hour
 Of darkness deaden all my wit
I’ll write: how all my art was poor,
 My mind too thought-packed to acquit
 My debt ... And only, “Thanks once more.”
 {8}

A few of the poems in this volume have already appeared in print: “The Volunteer,” “In a Ward,” and “The Battalion is now on Rest” in The Spectator; “The Immortal Hour” in The Westminster Gazette; “The Day of Victory” in The Gloucester Journal; and “After Music” in The R.C.M, Magazine. The author desires to thank the respective editors for their kind permission to include these poems in the present collection.

{9} 

CONTENTS

  PAGE
DEDICATION: TO M. M. S.7
THE VOLUNTEER13
THE FARM15
OMENS18
ETERNAL TREASURE19
FIRE IN THE DUSK20
TURMUT-HOEING21
IN A WARD22
CAMPS23
GIRL’S SONG25
SOLACE OF MEN26
DAY-BOYS AND CHORISTERS27
AT RESERVE DEPOT29
TOASTS AND MEMORIES30
FROM THE WINDOW32
YPRES—MINSTERWORTH33
{10} NEAR MIDSUMMER34
TOUSSAINTS36
THE STONE-BREAKER38
DRIFTING LEAVES40
CONTRASTS41
TO F. W. H.43
THE IMMORTAL HOUR44
TO HIS LOVE45
MIGRANTS46
OLD MARTINMAS EVE48
AFTER MUSIC49
THE TARGET50
TWIGWORTH VICARAGE51
{11} HOSPITAL PICTURES:
1. LADIES OF CHARITY52
2. DUST53
3. “ABERDONIAN”55
4. COMPANION—NORTH-EAST DUGOUT56
5. THE MINER57
6. UPSTAIRS PIANO58
HIDDEN TALES61
RECOMPENSE62
THE TRYST63
THE PLAIN64
RUMOURS OF WARS65
“ON REST”67
DICKY70
THE DAY OF VICTORY71
PASSIONATE EARTH75
THE POPLAR76
DOWN COMMERCIAL ROAD (GLOUCESTER)77
FROM OMIECOURT79
LE COQ FRANÇAIS80
{12} THE FISHERMAN OF NEWNHAM82
THE LOCK-KEEPER83
THE REVELLERS84
“ANNIE LAURIE”85
THE BATTALION IS NOW ON REST86
PHOTOGRAPHS87
THAT COUNTY89
INTERVAL90
DE PROFUNDIS91
THE TOWER93

{13}

WAR’S EMBERS

THE VOLUNTEER

(To A. L. B.)

I would test God’s purposes:
 I will go up and see
 What fate He’ll give, what destiny
 His hand holds for me.
For God is very secret,
 Slow-smiles, but does not say
 A word that will foreshadow
 Shape of the coming day.
Curious am I, curious ...
 And since He will not tell
 I’ll prove Him, go up against
 The naked mouth of Hell.{14}
And what hereafter—Heaven?
 Or Blighty? O if it were ...
 Mere agony, mere pain the price
 Of the returning there.
Or—nothing! Days in mud
 And slush, then other days ...
 Aie me! “Are they not all
 The seas of God”; God’s Ways?
 {15}

THE FARM

(To Mrs. Harvey and Those Others)

A creeper-covered house, an orchard near;
 A farmyard with tall ricks upstanding clear
 In golden sunlight of a late September.——
 How little of a whole world to remember!
 How slight a thing to keep a spirit free!
 Within the house were books,
 A piano, dear to me,
 And round the house the rooks
 Haunted each tall elm tree;
 Each sunset crying, calling, clamouring aloud.
And friends lived there of whom the house was proud,
 Sheltering with content from wind and storm,
 Them loving gathered at the hearthside warm,
 (O friendly, happy crowd!)
 Caress of firelight gave them, touching hair
 And cheeks and hands with sombre gleams of love,
 (When day died out behind the lovely bare
 Network of twigs, orchard and elms apart;
 When rooks lay still in round dark nests above,
 And Peace like cool dew comforted the heart.){16}
 The house all strangers welcomed, but as strangers kept
 For ever them apart
 From its deep heart,
 That hidden sanctuary of love close guarded;
 Having too great a honey-heap uphoarded
 Of children’s play, men’s work, lightly to let
 Strangers therein;
 Who knew its stubborn pride, and loved the more
 The place from webbed slate roof to cellar floor—
 Hens clucking, ducks, all casual farmyard din.
 How empty the place seemed when Duty called
 To harder service its three sons than tending
 Brown fruitful good earth there! But all’s God’s sending.
 Above the low barn where the oxen were stalled
 The old house watched for weeks the road, to see
 Nothing but common traffic; nothing its own.
 It had grown to them so used, so long had known
 Their presences; sheltered and shared sorrow and glee,
 No wonder it felt desolate and left alone ...
 That must remember, nothing at all forget.
 My mind (how often!) turned and returned to it,
 When in queer holes of chance, bedraggled, wet,
 Lousy I lay; to think how by Severn-side
 A house of steadfastness and quiet pride
 Kept faith to friends (when hope of mine had died{17}
 Almost to ash). And never twilight came
 With mystery and peace and points of flame—
 Save it must bring sounds of my Severn flowing
 Steadily seawards, orange windows glowing
 Bright in the dusk, and many a well-known name.
 {18}

OMENS
(To E. H.)

Black rooks about the trees
 Are circling slow;
 Tall elms that can no ease
 Nor comfort know,
 Since that the Autumn wind
 Batters them before, behind,
 A bitter breeze unkind.
They call like tongues of dread
 Prophesying woe,
 Rooks on the sunset red,
 Not heeding how
 Their clamouring brings near
 To a woman the old fear
 For her far soldier dear.
That harsh and idle crying
 Of mere annoy
 Tells her how men are dying,
 And how her boy
 May lie, his racked thought turning
 To the home fire on the hearth burning,
 The last agony be learning.
 {19}

ETERNAL TREASURE
(To H. N. H.)

Why think on Beauty as for ever lost
 When fire and steel have worked their evil will,
 Since Beauty lasts beyond decaying dust,
 And in the after-dark is lovely still?
 We are no phantoms; Body is but the case
 Of an immortal Flame that does not perish,
 Can the all-withering power of Time outface,
 Since God Himself with love that flame does cherish.
 Take comfort then, and dare the dangerous thing,
 Death flouting with his impotence of wrath;
 For Beauty arms us ’gainst his envious sting,
 Safes us in any the most perilous path.
 Come then, O brothers, greet what may befall
 With Joy, for Beauty’s Maker ordereth all.
 {20}

FIRE IN THE DUSK

When your white hands have lost their fairy power,
 Like dimpling water flash and charm no more,
 Quick pride of grace is still, closed your bright eyes—
 I still must think, under those Northern skies,
 Some influence shall remain of all that sweet;
 Some flower of courage braving Easter sleet;
 Colour to stir tears in tenderest skies;
 Music of light. Your Autumn beeches shall
 Set passion blazing in a heart until
 Colour you gave be fashioned in formal line
 On line; another’s beauty prove divine,
 And all your wandering grace shall not be lost
 To earth, being too precious, too great of cost—
 Last wonder to awake the divine spark,
 A lovely presence lighting Summer’s dark;
 Though dust your frame of flesh, such dust as makes
 Blue radiance of March in hidden brakes....
 Pass from your body then, be what you will,
 Whose light-foot walk outdanced the daffodil,
 Since Time can but confirm you and fulfil
 That hidden crescent power in you—Old Time,
 Spoiler of pride, and towers, and breath, and rhyme,
 Yet on the spirit impotent of power and will.
 {21}

TURMUT-HOEING

I straightened my back from turmut-hoeing
 And saw, with suddenly opened eyes,
 Tall trees, a meadow ripe for mowing,
 And azure June’s cloud-circled skies.
Below, the earth was beautiful
 Of touch and colour, fair each weed,
 But Heaven’s high beauty held me still,
 Only of music had I need.
And the white-clad girl at the old farm,
 Who smiled and looked across at me,
 Dumb was held by that strong charm
 Of cloud-ships sailing a foamless sea.
 {22}

IN A WARD
(To J. W. H.)

O wind that tosses free
 The children’s hair;
 Scatters the blossom of
 Apple and pear;
 Blow in my heart, touch me,
 Gladden me here.
You have seen so many things—
 Blow in and tell
 Tales of white sand and golden
 ’Gainst the sea swell.
 Bring me fine meadow-thoughts,
 Fresh orchard smell.
Here we must stare through glass
 To see the sun—
 Stare at flat ceilings white
 Till day is done:
 While you, sunshine, starshine,
 May out and run.
Blow in and bring us all
 Dear home-delight—
 Green face of the Spring earth,
 Blue of deep night.
 Blot each of our faces
 From the others’ sight.
 {23}

CAMPS

Out of the line we rest in villages
 Quiet indeed, where heal the spirit’s scars;
 But even so, lapped deep in sunshine and ease,
 We are haunted for ever by the shapes of wars.
Green in the sun they lie, secret, deserted,
 Lovely against the blue the summits show,
 Where once the bright steel sang, the red blood spurted,
 And brave men cowed their terrors long ago.
By day their life was easy; but at night,
 Even now, one hears strange rustlings in the bush;
 And, straining tensely doubtful ear and sight,
 The stealthy moving ere the sudden rush;
And flinches from the spear. War’s just-bright embers
 That Earth still keeps and treasures for the pride
 In sacrifice there shown; with love remembers
 The beauty and quick strength of men that died.{24}
Who died as we may die, for Freedom, beauty
 Of common living, calmly led in peace,
 Yet took the flinty road and hard of duty,
 Whose end was life abundant and increase.
But—when Heaven’s gate wide opening receives us
 Victors and full of song, forgetting scars;
 Shall we see to stir old memories, to grieve us,
 Heaven’s never-yet-healed sores of Michael’s wars?
 {25}

GIRL’S SONG

The tossing poplar in the wind
 Shows underleaf of silver-white;
 The roughness of the wind unkind
 Torments her out of all delight.
 But O that he were here
 Whose blows and whose caresses alike were dear!
The great oak to the tearing blast
 Stands steady with strong arms held wide,
 So over him my anger passed,
 When his rough usage hurt my pride.
 But O that once again
 I might arouse that passion, endure that pain!
 {26}

SOLACE OF MEN

Sweet smelling, sweet to handle, fair of hue
 Tobacco is. The soldier everywhere
 Takes it as friend, its friendliness to share,
 Whether in fragrant wreaths it mount faint blue
 In dug-out low, or surreptitiously to
 Parapet in rimy night, from hidden lair
 Of sentry; staying hunger, stilling fear—
 The old dreams of comfort bringing anew.
 For from that incense grows the stuff of dreams,
 And in those clouds a drowsing man may find
 All that was ever sweet to his starved mind,
 Heart long denied—dear friends, hills, horses, trees,
 Slopes of brown ploughland, sunset’s fading gleams ...
 The bane of care, the spur to memories.
 {27}

DAY-BOYS AND CHORISTERS
(To the Boys of King’s School, Gloucester, 1900-1905)

Under the shade of the great Tower
 Where pass the goodly and the wise,
 Year in, year out, winter and summer,
 With scufflings and excited cries,
 Football rages, not told in pages
 Of Fame whereof the wide world hears;
 A battle of divided Empire—
 The day-boys and the choristers.
Chorus
 So here’s to the room where the dark beams cross over,
 And here’s to the cupboard where hides the cane;
 The paddock and fives-court, great chestnut, tall tower—
 When Fritz stops his fooling we’ll see them again.
Golf balls, tennis balls, cricket and footballs,
 Balls of all sizes and sorts were sent
 Soaring by wall and arch and ivy
 High, high over to banishment.
 (Poor owner that loses!) And oh! but the bruises,
 Scars, and red hacks to cover the brave
 Shins of the boldest, when up and down playground
 Victory surged, Victory, edged like a wave.{28}
Chorus
 So here’s to the room where the dark beams cross over,
 And here’s to the cupboard where hides the cane,
 The paddock and fives-court, great chestnut, tall tower—
 When Fritz stops his fooling we’ll see them again.
Little they knew, those boys, how in Flanders
 And plains of France, in another day
 A trial dreadful of nerve and sinew
 For four long years should test alway
 That playtime pluck, that yet should carry
 Them through Hell’s during worst, and how
 Europe should honour them, a whole world praise them,
 Though Death tore their bodies and laid them low.
Chorus
 So here’s to the room where the dark beams cross over,
 And here’s to the cupboard where hides the cane;
 The paddock and fives-court, great chestnut, tall tower—
 When Fritz stops his fooling we’ll see them again.
 {29}

AT RESERVE DEPOT

When Spring comes here with early innocency
 Of pale high blue, they’ll put Revally back.
 The passers-by carelessly amused will see
 Breakfastless boys killing the patient sack.
And there will be manœuvres where the violet shows,
 Hiding its dark fervour, guarding its flame,
 Where I shall lie and stare while the mystery grows
 Huge and more huge, till the Sergeant calls my name.
 {30}

TOASTS AND MEMORIES
(To the Men of the 2/5 Gloucester Regiment)

When once I sat in estaminets
 With trusty friends of mine,
 We drank to folk in England
 And pledged them well in wine,
While thoughts of Gloucester filled us—
 Roads against windy skies
 At sunset, Severn river,
 Red inn-blinds, country cries.
That stung the heart with sorrow
 And barbéd sweet delight
 At Riez Bailleul, Laventie,
 At Merville, many a night.
Now I am over Channel
 I cannot help but think
 Of friends who stifle longing
 With friendly food and drink.
“Where’s Gurney now, I wonder,
 That smoked a pipe all day;
 Sometimes that talked like blazes,
 Sometimes had naught to say?{31}”
And I, at home, must wonder
 Where all my comrades are:
 Those men whose Heart-of-Beauty
 Was never stained by War.
 {32}

FROM THE WINDOW

Tall poplars in the sun
 Are quivering, and planes,
 Forgetting the day gone,
 Its cold un-August rains;
 But with me still remains
 The sight of beaten corn,
 Crushed flowers and forlorn,
 The summer’s wasted gains—
 Yet pools in secret lanes
 Abrim with heavenly blue
 Life’s wonder mirror anew.
 I must forget the pains
 Of yesterday, and do
 Brave things—bring loaded wains
 The bare brown meadows through,
 I must haste, I must out and run,
 Wonder, till my heart drains
 Joy’s cup, as in high champagnes
 Of blue, where great clouds go on
 With white sails free from stains
 Full-stretched, on fleckless mains—
 With captain’s joy of some proud galleon.
 {33}

YPRES—MINSTERWORTH
(To F. W. H.)

Thick lie in Gloucester orchards now
 Apples the Severn wind
 With rough play tore from the tossing
 Branches, and left behind
 Leaves strewn on pastures, blown in hedges,
 And by the roadway lined.
And I lie leagues on leagues afar
 To think how that wind made
 Great shoutings in the wide chimney,
 A noise of cannonade—
 Of how the proud elms by the signpost
 The tempest’s will obeyed—
To think how in some German prison
 A boy lies with whom
 I might have taken joy full-hearted
 Hearing the great boom
 Of Autumn, watching the fire, talking
 Of books in the half gloom.
O wind of Ypres and of Severn
 Riot there also, and tell
 Of comrades safe returned, home-keeping
 Music and Autumn smell.
 Comfort blow him and friendly greeting,
 Hearten him, wish him well!
 {34}

NEAR MIDSUMMER

Severn’s most fair to-day!
 See what a tide of blue
 She pours, and flecked alway
 With gold, and what a crew
 Of seagulls snowy white
 Float round her to delight
 Villagers, travellers.
 A brown thick flood is hers
 In winter when the rains
 Wash down from Midland plains,
 Halting wayfarers,
 Low meadows flooding deep
 With torrents from the steep
 Mountains of Wales and small
 Hillocks of no degree—
 Streams jostling to the sea;
 (Wrangling yet brotherly).
 Blue June has altered all—
 The river makes its fall
 With murmurous still sound,
 Past Pridings faëry ground,
 And steep-down Newnham cliff....
 O Boys in trenches, if
 You could see what any may
 (Escaping town for the day),
 Strong Severn all aglow,
 But tideless, running slow:{35}
 Far Cotswolds all a-shimmer,
 Blue Bredon leagues away—
 Huge Malverns, farther, dimmer ...
 Then you would feel the fire
 Of the First Days inspire
 You, when, despising all
 Save England’s, honour’s call,
 You dared the worst for her:
 Faced all things without fear,
 So she might stand alway
 A free Mother of men;
 High Queen as on this day.
 There would flood through you again
 The old faith, the old pride
 Wherein our fathers died,
 Whereby our land was builded and dignified.
 {36}

TOUSSAINTS
(To J. W. H.)

Like softly clanging cymbals were
 Plane-trees, poplars Autumn had
 Arrayed in gloriously sad
 Garments of beauty wind-astir;
 It was the day of all the dead—
Toussaints. In sombre twos and threes
 Between those coloured pillars went
 Drab mourners. Full of presences
 The air seemed ... ever and anon rent
 By a slow bell’s solemnities.
The past year’s gloriously dead
 Came, folk dear to that rich earth
 Had given them sustenance and birth,
 Breath and dreams and daily bread,
 Took labour-sweat, returned them mirth.
Merville across the plain gleamed white,
 The thronged still air gave never a sound,
 Only, monotonous untoned
 The bell of grief and lost delight.
 Gay leaves slow fluttered to the ground.{37}
Sudden, that sense of peace and prayer
 Like vapour faded. Round the bend
 Swung lines of khaki without end....
 Common was water, earth and air;
 Death seemed a hard thing not to mend.
 {38}

THE STONE-BREAKER
(To Dorothy)

The early dew was still untrodden,
 Flawless it lay on flower and blade,
 The last caress of night’s cold fragrance
 A freshness in the young day made.
The velvet and the silver floor
 Of the orchard-close was gold inlaid
 With spears and streaks of early sunlight—
 Such beauty makes men half afraid.
An old man at his heap of stones
 Turned as I neared his clinking hammer,
 Part of the earth he seemed, the trees,
 The sky, the twelve-hour heat of summer.
“Fine marnen, zür!” And the earth spoke
 From his mouth, as if the field dark red
 On our right hand had greeted me
 With words, that grew tall grain instead.
 . . . . .
 Oh, years ago, and near forgot!
 Yet, as I walked the Flemish way,
 An hour gone, England spoke to me
 As clear of speech as on that day;{39}
 Since peasants by the roadway working
 Hailed us in tones uncouth, and one
 Turned his face toward the marching column,
 Fronted, took gladness from the sun.
And straight my mind was set on singing
 For memory of a wrinkled face,
 Orchards untrodden, far to travel,
 Sweet to find in my own place.
 {40}

DRIFTING LEAVES

The yellow willow leaves that float
 Down Severn after Autumn rains
 Take not of trouble any note—
 Lost to the tree, its joys and pains.
But man that has a thousand ties
 Of homage to his place of birth,
 Nothing surrenders when he dies;
 But yearns for ever to his earth—
Red ploughlands, trees that friended him,
 Warm house of shelter, orchard peace.
 In day’s last rosy influence dim
 They flock to us without a cease;
Through fast-shut doors of olden houses
 In soundless night the dear dead come,
 Whose sorrow no live folk arouses,
 Running for comfort hither home.
Though leaves on tide may idly range,
 Grounding at last on some far mire—
 Our memories can never change:
 We are bond, we are ruled with Love’s desire.
 {41}

CONTRASTS

If I were on the High Road
 That runs to Malvern Town,
 I should not need to read, to smoke,
 My fear of death to drown;
 Watching the clouds, skies, shadows dappling
 The sweet land up and down.
But here the shells rush over,
 We lie in evil holes,
 We burrow into darkness
 Like rabbits or like moles,
 Men that have breathed the Severn air,
 Men that have eyes and souls.
To-day the grass runs over
 With ripples like the sea,
 And men stand up and drink air
 Easy and sweet and free;
 But days like this are half a curse,
 And Beauty troubles me.
The shadows under orchards there
 Must be as clear and black—
 At Minsterworth, at Framilode—
 As though we had all come back;
 Were out at making hay or tedding,
 Piling the yellow stack.{42}
The gardens grow as freshly
 On Cotswold’s green and white;
 The grey-stone cottage colours
 Are lovely to the sight,
 As we were glad for dreams there,
 Slept deep at home at night;
While here we die a dozen deaths
 A score of times a day;
 Trying to keep up heart and not
 To give ourselves away.
 “Two years longer,” “Peace to-morrow,”
 “Some time yet,” they say!
 {43}

TO F. W. H.

Ink black and lustreless may hold
 A passion full of living fire:
 Spring’s green the Autumn does enfold—
 Things precious hide their bright in the mire.
And a whole county’s lovely pride
 In one small book I found that made
 More real the pictured Severn side
 Than crash and shock of cannonade.
Beneath, more strong than that dread noise
 The talk I heard of trees and men,
 The still low-murmuring Earth-voice ...
 God send us dreams in peace again.
 {44}

THE IMMORTAL HOUR
(To Winnie)

I have forgotten where the pleasure lay
 In resting idle in the summer weather,
 Waiting on Beauty’s power my spirit to sway,
 Since Life has taken me and flung me hither;
Here where gray day to day goes dully on,
 So evenly, so grayly that the heart
 Not notices nor cares that Time is gone
 That might be jewelled bright and set apart.
And yet, for all this weight, there stirs in me
 Such music of Joy when some perceivéd flower
 Breaks irresistible this crust, this lethargy,
 I burn and hunger for that immortal hour
When Peace shall bring me first to my own home,
 To my own hills; I’ll climb and vision afar
 Great cloud-fleets line on line up Severn come,
 Where winds of Joy shall cleanse the stain of war.
 {45}

TO HIS LOVE

He’s gone, and all our plans
 Are useless indeed.
 We’ll walk no more on Cotswold
 Where the sheep feed
 Quietly and take no heed.
His body that was so quick
 Is not as you
 Knew it, on Severn river
 Under the blue
 Driving our small boat through.
You would not know him now ...
 But still he died
 Nobly, so cover him over
 With violets of pride
 Purple from Severn side.
Cover him, cover him soon!
 And with thick-set
 Masses of memoried flowers—
 Hide that red wet
 Thing I must somehow forget.
 {46}

MIGRANTS
(To Mrs. Taylor)

No colour yet appears
 On trees still summer fine,
 The hill has brown sheaves yet,
 Bare earth is hard and set;
 But autumn sends a sign
 In this as in other years.
For birds that flew alone
 And scattered sought their food
 Gather in whirring bands;—
 Starlings, about the lands
 Spring cherished, summer made good,
 Dark bird-clouds soon to be gone.
But above that windy sound
 A deeper note of fear
 All daylight without cease
 Troubles the country peace;
 War birds, high in the air,
 Airplanes shadow the ground.
Seawards to Africa
 Starlings with joy shall turn,
 War birds to skies of strife,
 Where Death is ever at Life;
 High in mid-air may burn
 Great things that trouble day.{47}
Their time is perilous,
 Governed by Fate obscure;
 But when our April comes
 About the thatch-eaved homes,—
 Cleaving sweet air, the sure
 Starlings shall come to us.
 {48}

OLD MARTINMAS EVE

The moon, one tree, one star,
 Still meadows far,
 Enwreathed and scarfed by phantom lines of white.
 November’s night
 Of all her nights, I thought, and turned to see
 Again that moon and star-supporting tree.
 If some most quiet tune had spoken then;
 Some silver thread of sound; a core within
 That sea-deep silentness, I had not known
 Ever such joy in peace, but sound was none—
 Nor should be till birds roused to find the dawn.
 {49}

AFTER MUSIC

Why, I am on fire now, and tremulous
 With sense of Beauty long denied; the first
 Opening of floodgate to the glorious burst
 Of Freedom from the Fate that limits us
 To work in darkness pining for the light,
 Thirsting for sweet untainted draughts of air,
 Clouds sunset coloured, Music ... O Music’s bare
 White heat of silver passion fiercely bright!
 While sweating at the foul task, we can taste
 No Joy that’s clean, no Love but something lets
 It from its power; the wisest soul forgets
 What’s beautiful, or delicate, or chaste.
 Orpheus drew me (as once his bride) from Hell.
 If wisely, her or me, the Gods can tell.
 {50}

THE TARGET

I shot him, and it had to be
 One of us! ’Twas him or me.
 “Couldn’t be helped,” and none can blame
 Me, for you would do the same.
My mother, she can’t sleep for fear
 Of what might be a-happening here
 To me. Perhaps it might be best
 To die, and set her fears at rest.
For worst is worst, and worry’s done.
 Perhaps he was the only son ...
 Yet God keeps still, and does not say
 A word of guidance any way.
Well, if they get me, first I’ll find
 That boy, and tell him all my mind,
 And see who felt the bullet worst,
 And ask his pardon, if I durst.
All’s a tangle. Here’s my job.
 A man might rave, or shout, or sob;
 And God He takes no sort of heed.
 This is a bloody mess indeed.
 {51}

TWIGWORTH VICARAGE
(To A. H. C.)

Wakened by birds and sun, laughter of the wind,
 A man might see all heart’s desire by raising
 His pillowed sleepy head (still apt for lazing
 And drowsy thought)—but then a green most kind
 Waved welcome, and the rifted sky behind
 Showed blue, whereon cloud-ships full-sailed went racing,
 Man to delight and set his heart on praising
 The Maker of all things, bountiful-hearted, kind.
May Hill, that half-revealéd tree-clad thing,
 Maisemore’s delightful ridge, where Severn flowing
 Nourished a wealth of lovely wild things blowing
 Sweet as the air—Wainlodes and Ashleworth
 To northward showed, a land where a great king
 Might sit to receive homage from the whole earth.
 {52}

HOSPITAL PICTURES

(To the Nurses of Ward 24, Bangour War Hospital, near Edinburgh)

1. LADIES OF CHARITY

With quiet tread, with softly smiling faces
 The nurses move like music through the room;
 While broken men (known, technically, as “cases”)
 Watch them with eyes late deep in bitter gloom,
 As though the Spring were come with all the Graces,
 Or maiden April walked the ward in bloom.
Men that have grown forgetful of Joy’s power,
 And old before their time, take courtesy
 So sweet of girl or woman, as if some flower
 Most strangely fair of Spring were suddenly
 Thick in the woods at Winter’s blackest hour—
 The gift unlocked for—lovely Charity.
Their anguish they forget, and, worse, the slow
 Corruption of Joy’s springs; now breathe again
 The free breath was theirs so long ago.
 Courage renewed makes mock at the old pain.
 Life’s loveliness brings tears, and a new glow.
 Somehow their sacrifice seems not in vain.
 {53}

2. DUST

Lying awake in the ward
 Long hours as any must,
 I wonder where the dust
 Comes from, the Dust, the Dust!
 That makes their life so hard,—
 The nurses, who must rub
 The soon appearing crust
 Of green on the bright knob.
And little bits of fluff,
 Dull white upon the floor,
 Most soft, most curious stuff
 That sidles to the door
 When no one sees, and makes
 Deep wrinkles and heart-breaks;
 Light sighs and curses rough.
Oh! if a scientist
 Of warm and kindly heart
 Should live a while apart,
 (Old Satan’s tail to twist,)
 Poring on crucibles,
 Vessels uncanny, till
 He won at last to Hell’s
 Grand secret of ill-will—
 How Fluff comes and how Dust,{54}
 Then nurses all would paint
 Cheeks pretty for his sake;
 Or stay in prayer awake
 All night for that great Saint
 Of Cleanliness, that bright
 Devoted anchorite;
 Brave champion and true knight.
 {55}

3. “ABERDONIAN”

A soldier looked at me with blue hawk-eyes,
 With kindly glances sorrow had made wise,
 And talked till all I’d ever read in books
 Melted to ashes in his burning looks;
 And poets I’d despise and craft of pen,
 If, while he told his coloured wonder-tales
 Of Glasgow, Ypres, sea mist, spouting whales
 (Alive past words or power of writing men),
 My heart had not exulted in his brave
 Air of the wild woodland and sea wave;
 Or if, with each new sentence from his tongue,
 My high-triumphing spirit had not sung
 As in some April when the world was young.
 {56}

4. COMPANION—NORTH-EAST DUGOUT

He talked of Africa,
 That fat and easy man.
 I’d but to say a word,
 And straight the tales began.
And when I’d wish to read,
 That man would not disclose
 A thought of harm, but sleep;
 Hard-breathing through his nose.
Then when I’d wish to hear
 More tales of Africa,
 ’Twas but to wake him up,
 And but a word to say
To press the button, and
 Keep quiet; nothing more;
 For tales of stretching veldt,
 Kaffir and sullen Boer.
O what a lovely friend!
 O quiet easy life!
 I wonder if his sister
 Would care to be my wife....
 {57}

5. THE MINER

Indomitable energy controlled
 By Fate to wayward ends and to half use,
 He should have given his service to the Muse,
 To most men shy, to him, her humble soldier,
 Frank-hearted, generous, bold.
Yet though his fate be cross, he shall not tire
 Nor seek another service than his own:
 For selfless valour and the primal fire
 Shine out from him, as once from great Ulysses,
 That king without a throne.
 {58}

6. UPSTAIRS PIANO

O dull confounded Thing,
 You will not sing
 Though I distress your keys
 With thumps; in ecstasies
 Of wrath, at some mis-said
 Word of the deathless Dead!
Chopin or dear Mozart,
 How must it break your heart
 To hear this Beast refuse
 The choice gifts of the Muse!
 And turn your airy thought
 With clumsiness to nought.
I am guilty too, for I
 Have let the fine thing by;
 And spoilt high graciousness
 With a note more or less;
 Whose wandering fingers know
 Not surely where they go;
 Whose mind most weak, most poor,
 Your fire may not endure
 That’s passionate, that’s pure.{59}
And yet, and yet, men pale
 (Late under Passchendaele
 Or some such blot on earth)
 Feel once again the birth
 Of joy in them, and know
 That Beauty’s not a show
 Of lovely things long past.
And stricken men at last
 Take heart and glimpse the light,
 Grow strong and comforted
 With eyes that challenge night,
 With proud-poised gallant head,
 And new-born keen delight.
Beethoven, Schumann, Bach:
 These men do greatly lack,
 And you have greatly given.
 The fervent blue of Heaven
 They will see with purer eyes—
 Suffering has made them wise;
 Music shall make them sweet.
If they shall see the stars
 More clearly after their wars,
 That is a good wage.
 Yours is a heritage{60}
 Most noble and complete.
 And if we, blind, have gone
 Where a great glory shone,
 Or deaf, where angels sang;
 Forgive us, for you, too,
 A little blind were, knew
 Of weakness, once, the pang;
 Of darkness, once, the fear.
And so, forgive this dear
 Pig-hearted chest of strings,
 And me, whose heart not sings
 Nor triumphs as do yours
 Within the Heavenly doors—
 Walking the clear unhindered level floors.
 {61}

HIDDEN TALES

The proud and sturdy horses
 Gather their willing forces,
 Unswerving make their courses
 Over the brown
 Earth that was mowing meadow
 A month agone, where shadow
 And light in the tall grasses
 Quivered and was gone.
They spoil the nest of plover
 And lark, turn up, uncover
 The bones of many a lover
 Unfamed in tales;
 Arrows, old flints of hammers,
 The rooks with hungry clamours
 Hover around and settle
 Seeking full meals.
Who knows what splendid story
 Lies here, what hidden glory
 Of brave defeat or victory
 This earth might show.
 None cares; the surging horses
 Gather untiring forces
 The keen-eyed farmer after
 Guiding the plough.
 {62}

RECOMPENSE
(To the Men of the 2/5 Gloucester Regiment)

I’d not have missed one single scrap of pain
 That brought me to such friends, and them to me;
 And precious is the smallest agony,
 The greatest, willingly to bear again—
 Cruel frost, night vigils, death so often ta’en
 By Golgothas untold from Somme to Sea.
 Duty’s a grey thing; Friendship valorously
 Rides high above all Fortune without stain.
Their eyes were stars within the blackest night
 Of Evil’s trial. Never mariner
 Did trust so in the ever-fixéd star
 As I in those. And so their laughter sounded—
 Trumpets of Victory glittering in sunlight;
 Though Hell’s power ringed them in, and night surrounded.
 {63}

THE TRYST
(To W. M. C.)

In curtain of the hazel wood,
 From sunset to the clear-of-star,
 An hour or more I feared, but stood—
 My lover’s road was far.
Until within the ferny brake
 Stirred patter feet and silver talk
 That set all horror wide awake—
 I fear the fairy folk ...
That bind with chains and change a maid
 From happy smiling to a thing
 Better in ground unhallowed laid
 Where holy bells not ring.
And whether late he came or soon
 I know not, through a rush of air
 Along the white road under the moon
 I sped, till the golden square
Showed of the blind lamplighted; then,
 My hand on heart, I slackened, stood ...
 Though Robin be the man of men,
 I’ll walk no more that wood.
 {64}

THE PLAIN

The plain’s a waste of evil mire,
 And dead of colour, sodden-grey,
 The trees are ruined, crumbled the spire
 That once made glad the innocent day.
The host of flowers are buried deep
 With friends of mine who held them dear;
 Poor shattered loveliness asleep,
 Dreaming of April’s covering there.
Oh, if the Bringer of Spring does care
 For Duty valorously done,
 Then what sweet breath shall scent the air!
 What colour-blaze outbrave the sun!
 {65}

RUMOURS OF WARS
(To Mrs. Voynich)

On Sussex hills to-day
 Women stand and hear
 The guns at work alway,
 Horribly, terribly clear.
The doors shake, on the wall
 The kitchen vessels move,
 The brave heart not at all
 May soothe its tortured love,
Nor hide from truth, nor find
 Comfort in lies. No prayer
 May calm. All’s naught. The mind
 Waits on the throbbing air.
The frighted day grows dark.
 None dares to speak. The gloom
 Makes bright and brighter the spark
 Of fire in the still room.
A crazy door shakes free....
 “Dear God!” They stand, they stare ...
 A shape eyes cannot see
 Troubles blank darkness there.{66}
She knows, and must go pray
 Numb-hearted by the bed
 That was his own alway ...
 The throbbing hurts her head.
 {67}

“ON REST”
(To the Men of the 2/5 Gloucester Regiment)

It’s a King’s life, a life fit for a King!
 To lie safe sheltered in some old hay-loft
 Night long, on golden straw, and warm and soft,
 Unroused; to hear through dreams dawn’s thrushes sing
 “Revally”—drowse again; then wake to find
 The bright sun through the broken tiles thick-streaming.
 “Revally” real: and there’s an end to dreaming.
 “Up, Boys, and Out!” Then O what green, what still
 Peace in the orchard, deep and sweet and kind,
 Shattered abruptly—splashing water, shout
 On shout of sport, and cookhouse vessels banging,
 Dixie against dixie musically clanging.—
 The farmer’s wife, searching for eggs, ’midst all
 Dear farmhouse cries. A stroll: and then “Breakfast’s up.”
 Porridge and bacon! Tea out of a real cup
 (Borrowed). First day on Rest, a Festival
 Of mirth, laughter in safety, a still air.
 “No whizzbangs,” “crumps” to fear, nothing to mind,
 Danger and the thick brown mud behind,
 An end to wiring, digging, end to care.{68}
 Now wonders begin, Sergeants with the crowd
 Mix; Corporals, Lance-Corporals, little proud,
 Authority forgotten, all goes well
 In this our Commonwealth, with tales to tell,
 Smokes to exchange, letters of price to read,
 Letters of friends more sweet than daily bread.
 The Sergeant-major sheathes his claws and lies
 Smoking at length, content deep in his eyes.
 Officers like brothers chaff and smile—
 Salutes forgotten, etiquette the while,
 Comrades and brothers all, one friendly band.
 Now through the orchard (sun-dried of dewfall) in
 And out the trees the noisy sports begin.
 He that is proud of body runs, leaps, turns
 Somersaults, hand-turns; the licensed jester flings
 Javelins of blunt wit may bruise not pierce;
 Ragtimes and any scrap of nonsense sings.
 All’s equal now. It’s Rest, none cares, none escapes
 The hurtless battering of those kindly japes.
 Noon comes, the estaminets open welcome doors,
 Men drift along the roads in three and fours,
 Enter those cool-paven rooms, and sit
 Waiting; many there are to serve, Madame
 Forces her way with glasses, all ignores
 The impatient clamour of that thirsty jam,
 The outcries, catcalls, queries, doubtful wit,
 Alike. Newspapers come, “Journal, m’sieur?”
 “What’s the news?” “Anything fresh, boy?” “Tell us what’s new.{69}”
 Dinner, perhaps a snooze, perhaps a stroll.
 Tea, letters (most like), rations to divide
 (Third of a loaf, half, if luck’s our way).
 No work, no work, no work! A lovely day!
 Down the main street men loiter side by side.
 So day goes on blue-domed till the west’s afire
 With the sun just sunken, though we cannot see,
 Hidden in green, the fall of majesty.
 Our hearts are lifted up, fierce with desire
 But once again to see the ricks, the farms,
 Blue roads, still trees of home in the rich glow;
 Life’s pageant fading slower and more slow
 Till Peace folds all things in with tender arms.
 The last stroll in the orchard ends, the last
 Candles are lit in bivvy and barn and cart,
 Where comrades talking lie, comfort at heart,
 Gladder for danger shared in the hard past,
 The stars grow bright ’gainst Heaven’s still-deepening blue,
 Lights in the orchard die. “I wonder how
 Mother is keeping: she must be sleepy now
 As we, yet may be wondering all night through.”
 {70}

DICKY
(To his Memory)

They found him when the day
 Was yet but gloom;
 Six feet of scarréd clay
 Was ample room
 And wide enough domain for all desires
 For him, whose glowing eyes
 Made mock at lethargies,
 Were not a moment still;—
 Can Death, all slayer, kill
 The fervent source of those exultant fires?
 Nay, not so;
 Somewhere that glow
 And starry shine so clear astonishes yet
 The wondering spirits as they come and go.
 Eyes that nor they nor we shall ever forget.
OMIECOURT.

{71} 

THE DAY OF VICTORY
(To my City)

The dull dispiriting November weather
 Hung like a blight on town and tower and tree,
 Hardly was Beauty anywhere to see
 Save—how fine rain (together
 With spare last leaves of creepers once showed wet
 As it were, with blood of some high-making passion,)
 Drifted slow and slow....
 But steadily aglow
 The City was, beneath its grey, and set
 Strong-mooded above the day’s inclemency.
Flaunting from houses, over the rejoicing crowd,
 Flags waved; that told how nation against nation
 Should 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 flew
 Banners invisible argent; Music intangible
 A glory of spirit wandered the wide air through.{72}
 All knew it, nothing mean of fire or common
 Ran in men’s minds; none so poor but knew
 Some 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 stay
 That concourse went, squibs, crackers, squibbing, cracking—
 Laughter gay
 All common-jovial noises sounded, bugles triumphing masterful, strident, clear above all,
 Hail fellow, cat-call ...
 Yet one discerned
 A new spirit learnt of pain, some great
 Acceptance out of hard endurance learned
 And 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, completion
 Humbly accepted,—a proud and grateful nation
 Took the reward of purpose had not swerved,{73}
 But steadily before
 Saw out, with equal mind, through alternation
 Of hope and doubt—a four-year purge of fire
 Changing with sore
 Travail the flawed spirit, cleansing desire.
And glad was I:
 Glad—who had seen
 By Somme and Ancre too many comrades lie.
 It was as if the Woman’s spirit moved
 That multitude, never of Man that pays
 So lightly for the treasure of his days—
 Of some woman that too greatly had beloved
 Yet, 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 suddenly
 Flags 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 over
 That strange assort of Life;
 Sister, and lover,
 Brother, child, wife,{74}
 Parent—each with his thought, careless or passioned,
 Of those who gave their frames of flesh to cover
 From spoil their land and folk, desperately fashioned
 Fate stubborn to their will.
Rain fell, miserably, miserably, and still
 The strange crowd clamoured till late, eddied, clamoured,
 Mixed, mused, drifted.... The Day of Victory.
 {75}

PASSIONATE EARTH
(To J. W. H.)

Where the new-turned ploughland runs to clean
 Edges 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 sing
 High at Heaven-gate; but loth for entering
 Lest there such brown and green it never find;
 Nor feel the sting
 Of such a beauty left so far behind.
 {76}

THE POPLAR
(To Micky)

A tall slim poplar
 That dances in
 A hidden corner
 Of the old garden,
 What is it in you
 Makes communion
 With this wind of Autumn,
 The clouds, the sun?
You must be lonely
 Amidst round trees
 With their matron-figures
 And stubborn knees,
 Casting hard glances
 Of keen despite
 On the lone girl that dances
 Silvery white.
But you are dearer
 To sky and earth
 Than lime-trees, plane-trees
 Of meaner birth.
 Your sweet shy beauty
 Dearer to us
 Than tree-folk, worthy,
 Censorious.
 {77}

DOWN COMMERCIAL ROAD (GLOUCESTER)
(To my Mother)

When I was small and packed with tales of desert islands far
 My 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 seas
 Than sit in school at spelling-books or sums of grocers’ wares.{78}
 And I’d have knelt for pity at any captain’s knees
 To 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 best
 To hide somehow from Mother, and get clear away
 To where the flag of England flies prouder than the rest.
 And Gloucester she’s famous in story.
 {79}

FROM OMIECOURT

O small dear 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 walls
 And ragged roofs, that you may be
 Still kept our own and proudly free
 While Severn from the Welsh height falls.
 {80}

LE COQ FRANÇAIS
(To Ronald)

After the biting cold of the outer night
 It seemed—(“Le Coq Français”)—a palace of light,
 And its low roof black-timbered was most fine
 After 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 son
 Who should see to them, and would, when the War was done.
 Of battalions who had passed there, happy as we
 To find a house so clean, such courtesy
 Simple, sincere; after vigils of frost
 The place seemed the seventh Heaven of comfort; lost
 In miraculous strange peace and warmth we’d sit
 Till the prowling police hunted us out of it—
 Away from café noir, café au lait, vin blanc,
 Vin rouge, citron, all that does belong
 To the kindly shelter of old estaminets,
 Nooked and cornered, with mirth of firelight ablaze—
 Herded us into billets; where candles must show
 Little enough comfort after the steady glow{81}
 Of that wonderful fireshine. We must huddle us close
 In blankets, hiding all but the crimson nose,
 To think awhile of home, if the frost would let
 Thought flow at all; then sleep, sleep to forget
 All but home and old rambles, lovely days
 Of maiden April, glamorous September haze,
 All darling things of life, the sweet of desire—
 Castles of Spain in the deep heart of the fire.
 {82}

THE FISHERMAN OF NEWNHAM
(To my Father)

When I was a boy at Newnham,
 For every tide that ran
 Swift on its way to Bollo,
 I wished I were a man
 To sail out and discover
 Where such a tide began.
But when my strength came on me
 ’Tis I must earn my bread:
 My Father set me fishing
 By Frampton Hock, instead
 Of wandering to the ocean—
 Wherever Severn led.
And now I’ve come to manhood,
 Too many cares have I
 To think of gallivanting
 (A wife and child forbye).
 So I must wonder ever
 Until time comes to die.
Then I shall question Peter
 Upon the heavenly floor,
 What makes the tide in rivers—
 How comes the Severn bore,
 And all things he will tell me
 I never knew before.
 {83}

THE LOCK-KEEPER
(To the Memory of Edward Thomas)

A tall lean man he was, proud of his gun,
 Of his garden, and small fruit trees every one
 Knowing all weather signs, the flight of birds,
 Farther than I could hear the falling thirds
 Of the first cuckoo. Able at digging, he
 Smoked his pipe ever, furiously, contentedly.
 Full of old country tales his memory was;
 Yarns of both sea and land, full of wise saws
 In rough fine speech; sayings his father had,
 That worked a twelve-hour day when but a lad.
 Handy with timber, nothing came amiss
 To his quick skill; and all the mysteries
 Of sail-making, net-making, boat-building were his.
 That dark face lit with bright bird-eyes, his stride
 Manner most friendly courteous, stubborn pride,
 I shall not forget, not yet his patience
 With me, unapt, though many a far league hence
 I’ll travel for many a year, nor ever find
 A 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.
 {84}

THE REVELLERS

I saw a silver-bright shield hang
 Entangled in the topmost boughs
 Of an old elm-tree, and a house
 Dreaming; the while a small stream sang
 A tune of broken silver by,
 And laughed and wondered at the sky.
A thousand thousand silver lamps
 Dared the bright moon of stars. O! who,
 Wandering that silver quiet through,
 Might heed the river-mists, dew-damps?
 All Heaven exulted, but Earth lay
 Breathless and tranced in peace alway.
From the orange-windowed tavern near
 A 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 limb
 To see such stars as passioned him.
The loth moon left the twigs and gazed
 Full-fronted at the road, the stream,
 That all but tiniest tunes adream
 Stilled, held breath at last amazed.
 The farmers from their revel came;
 But no stars saw, and felt no flame.
 {85}

“ANNIE LAURIE”
(To H. N. H.)

The high barn’s lit by many a guttering flare
 Of 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 air
 Of home, and laughter sounds beyond the midden
 Under the stars, where Youth makes Joy unchidden
 Of gods or men, and mocks at sorrow there.
 But hark! what sudden pure untainted passion
 Seizes us now, and stills the garrulous?
 A song of old immortal dedication
 To Beauty’s service and one woman’s heart.
 No tears we show, no sign of flame in us
 This hour of stars and music set apart.
 {86}

THE BATTALION IS NOW ON REST
(To “La Comtesse”)

Walking the village street, to watch the stars and find
 Some peace like the old peace, some soothe for soul and mind;
 The noise of laughter strikes me as I move on my way
 Towards 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 feel
 As I were on Cotswold, with nothing else to do
 Than 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.
 {87}

PHOTOGRAPHS

(To Two Scots Lads)

Lying in dug-outs, joking idly, wearily;
 Watching the candle guttering in the draught;
 Hearing the great shells go high over us, eerily
 Singing; 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 cheap
 Ill-taken card; and children—frozen, some
 (Babies) waiting on Dicky-bird to peep
 Out of the handkerchief that is his home
(But he’s so shy!). And some with bright looks, calling
 Delight across the miles of land and sea,
 That not the dread of barrage suddenly falling
 Could quite blot out—not mud nor lethargy.{88}
Smiles and triumphant careless laughter. O
 The pain of them, wide Earth’s most sacred things!
 Lying in dugouts, hearing the great shells slow
 Sailing mile-high, the heart mounts higher and sings.
But once—O why did he keep that bitter token
 Of 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.
 {89}

THAT COUNTY

Go up, go up your ways of varying love,
 Take each his darling path wherever lie
 The 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 see
 Severn, and Malverns, May Hill’s tiny grove.
No Everest is here, no peaks of power
 Astonish men. But on the winding ways
 White 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 tower
 That saw Armada beacons set alight.
 {90}

INTERVAL

To straight the back, how good; to see the slow
 Dispersed cloud-flocks of Heaven wandering blind
 Without a shepherd, feel caress the kind
 Sweet August air, soft drifting to and fro
 Meadow and arable.—Leaning on my hoe
 I 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 cease
 All that the stoutest pilot-heart might dare.
 Death over dreaming life managed his wings,
 Droning dull song in the sun-satiate air.
 {91}

DE PROFUNDIS

If only this fear would leave me I could dream of Crickley Hill
 And 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 cool
 And saw brown oxen trooping the dry sands to slake
 Their thirst at the river flowing, or plunged in a silver pool
 To shake the sleepy drowse off before well awake?
We are stale here, we are covered body and soul and mind
 With 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.{92}
O blow here, you dusk-airs and breaths of half-light,
 And comfort despairs of your darlings that long
 Night and day for sound of your bells, or a sight
 Of your tree-bordered lanes, land of blossom and song.
Autumn will be here soon, but the road of coloured leaves
 Is not for us, the up and down highway where go
 Earth’s pilgrims to wonder where Malvern upheaves
 That blue-emerald splendour under great clouds of snow.
Some day we’ll fill in trenches, level the land and turn
 Once more joyful faces to the country where trees
 Bear thickly for good drink, where strong sunsets burn
 Huge bonfires of glory—O God, send us peace!
Hard it is for men of moors or fens to endure
 Exile 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?
 {93}

THE TOWER
(To M. H.)

On the old road of Roman, on the road
 Of chivalry and pride—the path to Wales
 Famed in the chronicles and full of tales—
 Westward I went, songs in my mouth, and strode
 Free-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 under
 With noise of thunder,
 I turned and saw
 A 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 fair
 As any highest tiny cloudlet sown
 Faint in the upper air.
 Fragile yet strong, a music that vision seemed.
 Though all the land was fair, let the eye range
 Whither it will
 On plain or hill,
 It must return where white the tower gleamed
 Wonderful, irresistible, bubble-bright
 In the morning light.{94}
And then I knew, I knew why men must choose
 Rather the dangerous path of arms than let
 Beauty be broken
 That is God’s token,
 The sign of Him; why hearts of courage forget
 Aught but the need supreme
 To 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.