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War's Embers

<hr class="full" /> <div class="cb"> <ANTIMG src="images/cover.jpg" height-obs="550" alt="" /></div> {4}  BY THE SAME AUTHOR SEVERN AND SOMME, 1917 {5}  <h1>WAR’S EMBERS AND OTHER VERSES</h1> BY IVOR GURNEY London: SIDGWICK & JACKSON, LTD. 3 ADAM STREET, ADELPHI, W.C.2. 1919 {6} First published in 1919 All rights reserved {7} <h2 style="text-align:center;margin-right:auto;">TO M. M. S.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> O, if my wishes were my power, You should be praised as were most fit, Whose kindness cannot help but flower. </div> <div class="stanza"> But since the fates have ordered it Otherwise, then ere the hour Of darkness deaden all my wit </div> <div class="stanza"> I’ll write: how all my art was poor, My mind too thought-packed to acquit My debt ... And only, “Thanks once more.” {8}</div> </div></div> <div class="blk"> 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. </div> {9}  <h2>CONTENTS</h2> <table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary=""> <tr><td>  </td><td class="rt">PAGE</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">DEDICATION: TO M. M. S.</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">7</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">THE VOLUNTEER</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">13</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">THE FARM</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">15</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">OMENS</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">18</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">ETERNAL TREASURE</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">19</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">FIRE IN THE DUSK</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">20</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">TURMUT-HOEING</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">21</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">IN A WARD</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">22</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">CAMPS</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">23</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">GIRL’S SONG</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">25</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">SOLACE OF MEN</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">26</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">DAY-BOYS AND CHORISTERS</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">27</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">AT RESERVE DEPOT</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">29</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">TOASTS AND MEMORIES</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">30</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">FROM THE WINDOW</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">32</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">YPRES—MINSTERWORTH</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">33</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">{10} NEAR MIDSUMMER</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">34</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">TOUSSAINTS</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">36</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">THE STONE-BREAKER</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">38</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">DRIFTING LEAVES</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">40</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">CONTRASTS</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">41</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">TO F. W. H.</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">43</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">THE IMMORTAL HOUR</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">44</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">TO HIS LOVE</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">45</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">MIGRANTS</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">46</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">OLD MARTINMAS EVE</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">48</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">AFTER MUSIC</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">49</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">THE TARGET</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">50</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">TWIGWORTH VICARAGE</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">51</td></tr> <tr><td>{11} HOSPITAL PICTURES:</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="pdd">1. LADIES OF CHARITY</td><td class="rt">52</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="pdd">2. DUST</td><td class="rt">53</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="pdd">3. “ABERDONIAN”</td><td class="rt">55</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="pdd">4. COMPANION—NORTH-EAST DUGOUT</td><td class="rt">56</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="pdd">5. THE MINER</td><td class="rt">57</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="pdd">6. UPSTAIRS PIANO</td><td class="rt">58</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">HIDDEN TALES</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">61</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">RECOMPENSE</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">62</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">THE TRYST</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">63</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">THE PLAIN</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">64</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">RUMOURS OF WARS</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">65</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">“ON REST”</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">67</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">DICKY</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">70</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">THE DAY OF VICTORY</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">71</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">PASSIONATE EARTH</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">75</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">THE POPLAR</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">76</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">DOWN COMMERCIAL ROAD (GLOUCESTER)</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">77</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">FROM OMIECOURT</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">79</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">LE COQ FRANÇAIS</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">80</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">{12} THE FISHERMAN OF NEWNHAM</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">82</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">THE LOCK-KEEPER</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">83</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">THE REVELLERS</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">84</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">“ANNIE LAURIE”</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">85</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">THE BATTALION IS NOW ON REST</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">86</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">PHOTOGRAPHS</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">87</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">THAT COUNTY</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">89</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">INTERVAL</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">90</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">DE PROFUNDIS</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">91</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top">THE TOWER</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">93</td></tr> </table> {13} <h2>WAR’S EMBERS</h2> <h2>THE VOLUNTEER (To A. L. B.)</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> I would test God’s purposes: I will go up and see What fate He’ll give, what destiny His hand holds for me. </div> <div class="stanza"> For God is very secret, Slow-smiles, but does not say A word that will foreshadow Shape of the coming day. </div> <div class="stanza"> Curious am I, curious ... And since He will not tell I’ll prove Him, go up against The naked mouth of Hell.{14} </div> <div class="stanza"> And what hereafter—Heaven? Or Blighty? O if it were ... Mere agony, mere pain the price Of the returning there. </div> <div class="stanza"> Or—nothing! Days in mud And slush, then other days ... Aie me! “Are they not all The seas of God”; God’s Ways? {15}</div> </div></div> <h2>THE FARM (To Mrs. Harvey and Those Others)</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>OMENS (To E. H.)</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>ETERNAL TREASURE (To H. N. H.)</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>FIRE IN THE DUSK</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>TURMUT-HOEING</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>IN A WARD (To J. W. H.)</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>CAMPS</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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; </div> <div class="stanza"> 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} </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>GIRL’S SONG</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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! </div> <div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>SOLACE OF MEN</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>DAY-BOYS AND CHORISTERS (To the Boys of King’s School, Gloucester, 1900-1905)</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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} </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>AT RESERVE DEPOT</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>TOASTS AND MEMORIES (To the Men of the 2/5 Gloucester Regiment)</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> When once I sat in estaminets With trusty friends of mine, We drank to folk in England And pledged them well in wine, </div> <div class="stanza"> While thoughts of Gloucester filled us— Roads against windy skies At sunset, Severn river, Red inn-blinds, country cries. </div> <div class="stanza"> That stung the heart with sorrow And barbéd sweet delight At Riez Bailleul, Laventie, At Merville, many a night. </div> <div class="stanza"> Now I am over Channel I cannot help but think Of friends who stifle longing With friendly food and drink. </div> <div class="stanza"> “Where’s Gurney now, I wonder, That smoked a pipe all day; Sometimes that talked like blazes, Sometimes had naught to say?{31}” </div> <div class="stanza"> And I, at home, must wonder Where all my comrades are: Those men whose Heart-of-Beauty Was never stained by War. {32}</div> </div></div> <h2>FROM THE WINDOW</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>YPRES—MINSTERWORTH (To F. W. H.)</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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— </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>NEAR MIDSUMMER</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>TOUSSAINTS (To J. W. H.)</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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— </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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} </div> <div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>THE STONE-BREAKER (To Dorothy)</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> “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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>DRIFTING LEAVES</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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— </div> <div class="stanza"> 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; </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>CONTRASTS</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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} </div> <div class="stanza"> 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; </div> <div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>TO F. W. H.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>THE IMMORTAL HOUR (To Winnie)</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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; </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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 </div> <div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>TO HIS LOVE</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> His body that was so quick Is not as you Knew it, on Severn river Under the blue Driving our small boat through. </div> <div class="stanza"> You would not know him now ... But still he died Nobly, so cover him over With violets of pride Purple from Severn side. </div> <div class="stanza"> Cover him, cover him soon! And with thick-set Masses of memoried flowers— Hide that red wet Thing I must somehow forget. {46}</div> </div></div> <h2>MIGRANTS (To Mrs. Taylor)</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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} </div> <div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>OLD MARTINMAS EVE</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>AFTER MUSIC</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>THE TARGET</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>TWIGWORTH VICARAGE (To A. H. C.)</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>HOSPITAL PICTURES (To the Nurses of Ward 24, Bangour War Hospital, near Edinburgh)</h2> <h3>1. LADIES OF CHARITY</h3> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h3>2. DUST</h3> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h3>3. “ABERDONIAN”</h3> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h3>4. COMPANION—NORTH-EAST DUGOUT</h3> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> He talked of Africa, That fat and easy man. I’d but to say a word, And straight the tales began. </div> <div class="stanza"> And when I’d wish to read, That man would not disclose A thought of harm, but sleep; Hard-breathing through his nose. </div> <div class="stanza"> Then when I’d wish to hear More tales of Africa, ’Twas but to wake him up, And but a word to say </div> <div class="stanza"> To press the button, and Keep quiet; nothing more; For tales of stretching veldt, Kaffir and sullen Boer. </div> <div class="stanza"> O what a lovely friend! O quiet easy life! I wonder if his sister Would care to be my wife.... {57}</div> </div></div> <h3>5. THE MINER</h3> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h3>6. UPSTAIRS PIANO</h3> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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! </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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} </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>HIDDEN TALES</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>RECOMPENSE (To the Men of the 2/5 Gloucester Regiment)</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>THE TRYST (To W. M. C.)</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> Until within the ferny brake Stirred patter feet and silver talk That set all horror wide awake— I fear the fairy folk ... </div> <div class="stanza"> That bind with chains and change a maid From happy smiling to a thing Better in ground unhallowed laid Where holy bells not ring. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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 </div> <div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>THE PLAIN</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>RUMOURS OF WARS (To Mrs. Voynich)</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> On Sussex hills to-day Women stand and hear The guns at work alway, Horribly, terribly clear. </div> <div class="stanza"> The doors shake, on the wall The kitchen vessels move, The brave heart not at all May soothe its tortured love, </div> <div class="stanza"> Nor hide from truth, nor find Comfort in lies. No prayer May calm. All’s naught. The mind Waits on the throbbing air. </div> <div class="stanza"> The frighted day grows dark. None dares to speak. The gloom Makes bright and brighter the spark Of fire in the still room. </div> <div class="stanza"> A crazy door shakes free.... “Dear God!” They stand, they stare ... A shape eyes cannot see Troubles blank darkness there.{66} </div> <div class="stanza"> She knows, and must go pray Numb-hearted by the bed That was his own alway ... The throbbing hurts her head. {67}</div> </div></div> <h2>“ON REST” (To the Men of the 2/5 Gloucester Regiment)</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>DICKY (To his Memory)</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> OMIECOURT.</div> </div></div> {71}  <h2>THE DAY OF VICTORY (To my City)</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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.... </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> Rain fell, miserably, miserably, and still The strange crowd clamoured till late, eddied, clamoured, Mixed, mused, drifted.... The Day of Victory. {75}</div> </div></div> <h2>PASSIONATE EARTH (To J. W. H.)</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>THE POPLAR (To Micky)</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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? </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>DOWN COMMERCIAL ROAD (GLOUCESTER) (To my Mother)</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>FROM OMIECOURT</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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! </div> <div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>LE COQ FRANÇAIS (To Ronald)</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>THE FISHERMAN OF NEWNHAM (To my Father)</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>THE LOCK-KEEPER (To the Memory of Edward Thomas)</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>THE REVELLERS</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>“ANNIE LAURIE” (To H. N. H.)</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>THE BATTALION IS NOW ON REST (To “La Comtesse”)</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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; </div> <div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>PHOTOGRAPHS (To Two Scots Lads)</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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 </div> <div class="stanza"> 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, </div> <div class="stanza"> 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 </div> <div class="stanza"> (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} </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>THAT COUNTY</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>INTERVAL</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>DE PROFUNDIS</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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? </div> <div class="stanza"> 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} </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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! </div> <div class="stanza"> 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}</div> </div></div> <h2>THE TOWER (To M. H.)</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 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— </div> <div class="stanza"> 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} </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> </div></div> Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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