Chapter C: Company Cook 40

EPITAPH 41

SONNET 42

THE FIRST SPRING DAY 43

DEFIANCE 45

THE ORCHARDS, THE SEA, AND THE GUNS 46

DYING IN SPRING 47

VICTORY 48

DEATH THE REVEALER 49

F. W. H. 50

POETRY 51

PROSE POEMS--

1. HEAVEN 52

2. THE MOTH 53

3. THE ARTIST 54

4. THE WINDOW GLASS 55

5. IN THE FIELD OF TIME 56

6. BLUE GRASS 57

7. THE POET 58

8. SORROW 59

9. THE MIRACLE 60

10. FAITH 61

11. TIME--THE HORSE 62

12. THE REBUILDING OF REALITY 63

13. THE TOKEN 64

_IN FLANDERS_

_I’m homesick for my hills again--
My hills again!
To see above the Severn plain
Unscabbarded against the sky
The blue high blade of Cotswold lie;
The giant clouds go royally
By jagged Malvern with a train
Of shadows. Where the land is low
Like a huge imprisoning O
I hear a heart that’s sound and high,
I hear the heart within me cry:
“I’m homesick for my hills again--
My hills again!
Cotswold or Malvern, sun or rain!
My hills again!”_

A SONG OF GLOUCESTERSHIRE

(_Dedicated to the Gloucestershire Society_)

_North, South, East, and West:
Think of whichever you love the best.
Forest and vale and high blue hill:
You may have whichever you will,
And quaff one cup to the love o’ your soul
Before we drink to the lovely whole._

Here are high hills with towns all stone,
(Did you come from the Cotswolds then?)
And an architecture all their own,
And a breed of sturdy men.

But here’s a forest old and stern,
(Say, do you know the Wye?)
Where sunlight dapples green miles of fern,
A river wandering by.

Here’s peaceful meadow-land and kine,
(Do you see a fair grey tower?)
Where sweet together close entwine
Grass, clover, and daisy flower.

Here stretches the land toward the sea
(Behold the castle bold!)
Where men live out life merrily,
And die merry and old.

_North, South, East, and West:
Think of whichever you love the best.
Forest and vale and high blue hill:
You shall have whichever you will,
To quaff one cup to the love o’ your soul
Before we drink to the lovely whole._

BALLADE OF THE RICH HEART

What thief is he can rob this treasury,
Which hath not gold but dreams within its gates?
What power can enter in to take from me
My treasure, while upon the threshold waits
“Courage,” my watch-dog, keeping back the fates
Which follow close until I do depart
In safety from their little loves and hates?
Singing of all I carry in my heart.

Guarded of dreams against all evil chance,
With young Adventure arm in arm I go
To laugh at Luck and silly Circumstance.
And, counting naught that comes to me my foe,
I change, if ’tis my whim, the winter snow
To blowing blossom: and by that same art
I fashion as I will Life’s weal and woe:
Singing of all I carry in my heart.

Let me go lame and lousy like a tramp
But feel the wind and know the moonlit sky!
What matter if the falling dew be damp--
Still is it dew! And well contented I
Among my dreams (in seeming poverty)
Far from the cities and the noisy mart,--
With Life and Death--my dearest friends--to lie,
Singing of all I carry in my heart.

_Envoi._

Prince of this world, high monarch of all those
Who deem Reality life’s better part,
Herewith I tweak thy crooked royal nose--
Singing of all I carry in my heart.

SONG OF MINSTERWORTH PERRY

When Noe went sailing with his crew
And waters covered over the earth,
Trees that in Eden-orchard grew
Got washed away to Minsterworth.

Now every year they bloom again,
(All of the trees spread healthy root)
And after Summer’s shine and rain
We gather up the blessed fruit;

Whereof we get a heavenly drink
(Two rather!) for to make us merry;
Oh! Cider’s one, and I do think
The name o’ t’other one is Perry!

A GLOUCESTERSHIRE WISH AT EASTERTIDE

Here’s luck, my lads, while Birdlip Hill is steep:--
--As long as Cotswold’s high or Severn’s deep.
Our thoughts of you shall blossom and abide
While blow the orchards about Severn side:--
--While a round bubble like the children blow,
May Hill floats purple in the sunset glow.

Our prayers go up to bless you where you lie,
While Gloucester tower stands up against the sky
To write old thoughts of loveliness, and trace
Dead men’s long living will to give God praise:--
--Who of His mercy doth His Own Son give
This blessed morn, that you, and all, may live!

SONG OF THE ROAD

Cheerily upon the road
Tramp we all together,
Bearing every one his load
Through the changeful weather.

To one Hope we all belong,
To one Fate a debtor,
Songs must cheer our steps along,
Mirth the road make better.

Wishes cannot make a horse,
Only beggars would ride;
We must meet the fairy force
In each sombre wood-side.

We must bravely tread the way,
Gaily sing together,
Till we reach the endless day,
Heaven’s golden weather.

PIPER’S WOOD

In Minsterworth when March is in,
And Spring begins to gild the days,
Oh! then starts up a joyous din,
For Piper’s Wood is full of praise,
Because the birds deem winter gone
And welcome the returning sun.

Blackbird and thrush and robin dear
Within that wood try over all
The songs they mean to shout so clear
Before green leaves grow red and fall;
And harkening in its shadows you
Must needs sing out of Summer too.

BALLADE OF RIVER SAILING

_The Dorothy_ was very small: a boat
Scarce any bigger than the sort one rows
With oars! We got her for a five-pound note
At second-hand. Yet when the river flows
Strong to the sea, and the wind lightly blows,
Then see her dancing on the tide, and you’ll
Swear she’s the prettiest little craft that goes
Up-stream from Framilode to Bollopool.

Bare-footed, push her from the bank afloat,
(The soft warm mud comes squelching through your toes!)
Scramble aboard: then find an antidote
For every care a jaded spirit knows:
While round the boat the broken water crows
With laughter, casting pretty ridicule
On human life and all its little woes,
Up-stream from Framilode to Bollopool.

How shall I tell you what the sunset wrote
Upon the outspread waters--gold and rose:
Or how the white sail of our little boat
Looks on a summer sky? The hills enclose
With blue solemnity: each white scar shows
Clear on the quarried Cotteswolds high and cool.
And high and cool a fevered spirit grows
Up-stream from Framilode to Bollopool.

_Envoi._

Prince, you have horses: motors, I suppose,
As well! At finding pleasure you’re no fool.
But have you got a little boat that blows
Up-stream from Framilode to Bollopool?

SONG OF MINSTERWORTH

_Air_: “_The Vicar of Bray_”

In olden, olden centuries
On Gloucester’s holy ground, sir,
The monks did pray and chant all day,
And grow exceeding round, sir;
And here’s the reason that they throve
To praise their pleasant fortune,
“We keep our beasts”--thus quoth the priests,
“In Minsterworth--that’s Mortune!”[1]

_So this is the chorus we will sing,
And this is the spot we’ll drink to,
While blossom blows and Severn flows,
And Earth has mugs to clink to._

Oh! there in sleepy Summer sounds
The drowsy drone of bees, sir,
And there in Winter paints the sun
His patterns ’neath the trees, sir;
And there with merry song doth run
A river full of fish, sir,
That Thursday sees upon the flood
And Friday on the dish, sir.

_So this is the chorus we will sing
And this is the spot we’ll drink to,
While blossom blows and Severn flows,
And Earth has mugs to clink to._

The jovial priests to dust are gone,
We cannot hear their singing;
But still their merry chorus-song
From newer lips runs ringing.
And we who drink the sunny air
And see the blossoms drifting,
Will sit and sing the self-same thing
Until the roof we’re lifting.

_So this is the chorus we will sing,
And this is the spot we’ll drink to,
While blossom blows and Severn flows,
And Earth has mugs to clink to._

[1] The ancient name of the parish was Mortune--that is, the village in the mere; and the name was changed to Minsterworth early in the fourteenth century because it belonged to the Minster or Abbey of Gloucester, and was the Minster’s “Worth” or farm where the cattle were kept.--F. W. H.

CRICKET: THE CATCH

Whizzing, fierce, it came
Down the summer air,
Burning like a flame
On my fingers bare,
And it brought to me
As swift--a memory.

Happy days long dead
Clear I saw once more.
Childhood that is fled:--
Rossall on the shore,
Where the sea sobs wild
Like a homesick child.

Oh, the blue bird’s fled!
Never man can follow.
Yet at times instead
Comes this scarlet swallow,
Bearing on its wings
(Where it skims and dips,
Gleaming through the slips)
Sweet Time-strangled things.

WONDERS

What magic is in common grass
To bring this miracle to pass?
That within it one should find
Salves to give him peace of mind?
--It’s very queer that garden weed
Should minister to my soul’s need.

What fairy in the falling rain
Takes the robin’s small refrain,
And twists it to a tiny charm
To keep a tempted heart from harm?
--It puzzles me a wild bird’s song
Should save my soul from doing wrong.

TRIOLET

If Beauty were a mortal thing
That died like laughter, grief, and lust,
The poet would not need to sing.
If Beauty were a mortal thing
It would not wound us with its sting.
We should lie happy in the dust
If Beauty were a mortal thing
That died like laughter, grief, and lust.

TRIOLET

Winter has hardened all the ground,
But flowers are on the window-pane;
No others are there to be found:--
Winter has hardened all the ground.
But here, while Earth is bare and bound,
Bloom ghosts of those his frost has slain.
Winter has hardened all the ground,
But flowers are on the window-pane.

WHAT GOD SAID

“This be a lesson,” said Life, with a frown--
And knocked me down.
“And serve him right!” cried the goodly men,
While I--I picked myself up, and then
Went on just as I used to do.

But the good God smiled as He shook His head;
“It’s a troublesome child,” said He, “but yet
Not quite so altogether dead
As those solemn old fools that laughed. Don’t fret!”
At least, I think that’s what He said.

TO HIS MAID

Since above Time, upon Eternity
The lovely essence of true loving’s set,
Time shall not triumph over you and me,
Nor--though we pay his debt--
Shall Death hold mastery.

Your eyes are bright for ever. Your dark hair
Holds an eternal shade. Like a bright sword
Shall flame the vision of your strange sweet ways,
Cleaving the years: and even your smallest word,
Lying forgotten with the things that were,
Shall glow and kindle, burning up the days.

BALLADE OF DAMNABLE THINGS

I do not like a horse to throw me off.
I do not like the motor-bike to skid.
I do not like a nasty hacking cough,
Nor influenza. And I never did
Enjoy the thought of frizzling on a grid,
The while wee flaming devils dance and sing.
But short of simple Hell without the lid,
I think that jaundice is the damn’dest thing.

Fleas, faintness, famine, stomach-ache, the feel
Of flies upon your face, rats in your bed;
Lice, dusty roads, a blister on your heel,
The taste of salts, the scent of things long dead,
Home-sickness, chilblains, grief uncomforted,
A hollow tooth with cold, a hornet sting:--
These are unpleasant, yet when all is said
I think that jaundice is the damn’dest thing.

See you the whole bright world before your eye
Dwindle as ugly as a wrinkled pea.
See Beauty, a pricked bubble: Truth, a lie:
Achievement, foam on muddy water. See
Yourself a yellow devil suddenly,
And all the zest of youth gone journeying--
See you all this, and then you will agree
(I think) that jaundice is the damn’dest thing.

_Envoi._

Prince of the damned--I ransack my supplies
To find a fitting wish at you to fling.
Now may you look on Hell through yellow eyes.
I think that jaundice is the damn’dest thing.

SONG OF HEALTH

For friends to stand beside, for foes to fight,
For devil’s work to break, for Wrong and Right,
And will (however hard) to choose between them:
For merry tales, no matter where you glean them:
Songs, stars, delight of birds, and summer roses,
Sunshine, wherein my friend the dog now dozes:
Danger--the zest of life, and Love, the lord
Of Life and Death: for every open word
Spoken in blame or praise by friend o’ mine
To spur me on: for old, good memories,
Keeping in my soul’s cellar like good wine:
For Truth that’s strong, and Beauty so divine:
For animals, and children, and for trees,
Both wintry-black and blossoming in white:
For homely gardens and for humming bees:
For drink, and dreams, and daisies on the sod,
Plain food, and fire (when it will light)--
Thank God!

GRATITUDE

Grateful--ah, yes!
I, who have seen
The larches brighten green,
The orchard’s Easter dress,
And those red thousand poppies,
In wheat below the coppice:

I, who (while others lie in graves
Of earth, or rocked with waves),
Have leave to walk
And sing and talk,
With golden lads and girls,
My friends,
To all the farthest ends,
Whither Life whirls....

How can I not feel gratitude for this
And other bliss,
Which God--dear God--hath sent,
For my great wonderment?

THE SOLDIER SPEAKS

Within my heart I safely keep,
England, what things are yours:
Your clouds, and cloud-like flocks of sheep
That drift o’er windy moors.
Possessing naught, I proudly hold
Great hills and little gay
Hill-towns set black on sunrise-gold
At breaking of the day.

Though unto me you be austere
And loveless, darling land;
Though you be cold and hard, my dear,
And will not understand.
Yet have I fought and bled for you,
And, by that self-same sign,
Still must I love you, yearn to you,
England--how truly mine!

A PRESENT FROM FLANDERS

Where dewfall and the moon
Make precious things,
On every small festoon
A spider slings:

Treading--like dead leaves under
All drifted days,
Happy the lovers wander
In Winter ways;

No thought of pain perplexes
The peace they hold;
No worldly sorrow vexes
The lovers. Gold--

All golden gleams the way;
How strange such riches
Drawn from rough men should be
Seven or eight worlds away,
Fighting, and carelessly,
Dying in ditches!

IF WE RETURN

(_Rondeau_)

If we return, will England be
Just England still to you and me?
The place where we must earn our bread?
We, who have walked among the dead.
And watched the smile of agony,

And seen the price of Liberty,
Which we have taken carelessly
From other hands. Nay, we shall dread,
If we return,

Dread lest we hold blood-guiltily
The things that men have died to free.
Oh, English fields shall blossom red
For all the blood that has been shed
By men whose guardians are we,
If we return.

A PEOPLE RENEWED

Now these like men shall live,
And like to princes fall.
They take what Fate will give
At this great festival.

And since at length they find
That life is sweet indeed,
They cast it on the wind
To serve their country’s need.

See young “Adventure” there
(“Make-money-quick” that was)
Hurls down his gods that were
For Honour and the Cross!

Old “Grab-at-Gold” lies low
In Flanders. And again
(Because men will it so)
England is ruled by Men.

THE AWAKENING

At night, in dream,
I saw those fields round home
Agleam.
Drenched all with dew
Beneath day’s newest dome
Of gold and blue.

All night--
All night they shone for me, and then
Came light.
And suddenly I woke, and lovely joy!
I was at home, with the fields gold as when
I was a boy.

* * * * *

Thus shall all men rise up at last to see,
Their dearest dreams golden reality.

THE RETURN

The unimaginable hour
That folds away our joys and pain
Holds not the spirit in its power.
Therefore I shall come home again
(Wherever my poor body lies),
To whisper in the summer trees
Upon a lazy fall and rise
Of wind: and in day’s red decline
Walk with the sun those roads of mine,
Then rosy with my memories.

Though you may see me not, yet hear
My laughter in the laughing streams,
My footsteps in the running rain....
For sake of all I counted dear
And visit still within my dreams
I shall at last come home again.

LAND OF HEART’S DELIGHT

Glory’s a temple open wide,
Content, a little shrine.
But Heart’s Delight is a land so bright
We reckon it half divine.
It lies wherever man has lived,
But wheresoe’er you find it
Its skies are blue with dreams come true,
And Heaven is just behind it.

Glory’s the universal gleam
Of all God gives to men.
Content, the little silver dream
He sends to one in ten.
But Heart’s Delight, all golden bright,
Is given to him alone
Who has hidden his heart in the deepest part
Of a place called Home.

GONNEHEM

Of Gonnehem it shall be said
That we arrived there late and worn
With marching, and were given a bed
Of lovely straw. And then at morn
On rising from deep sleep saw dangle--
Shining in the sun to spangle,
The all-blue heaven--branch loads of red
Bright cherries which we bought to eat,
Dew-wet, dawn-cool, and sunny-sweet.
There was a tiny court-yard too,
Wherein one shady walnut grew.
Unruffled peace the farm encloses--
I wonder if beneath that tree,
The meditating hens still be.
Are the white walls now gay with roses?
Does the small fountain yet run free?
I wonder if that dog still dozes....
Some day we must go back to see.

THE REST FARM

Into this quiet place
Of peace we come.
The War God hides his face,
His mouth is dumb.

All reckless, wild decrees
His lips repeat,
Are hushed by a little breeze
In waving wheat.

And, like the penance-peace
In a heart forlorn,
Thrills the word of the trees--
The sigh of the corn.

BALLADE OF BEELZEBUB, GOD OF FLIES

Some men there are will not abide a rat
Within their bivvy. If one chance to peep
At them through little beady eyes, then pat,
They throw a boot and rouse a mate from sleep
To hunt the thing, and on its head they heap
Curses quite inappropriate to its size.
I care for none of these, but broad and deep
I curse Beelzebub--the God of Flies.

Others may hunt the mouse with bayonet bright,
And beard the glittering beetle in his lair,
And fill the arches of the ancient night
With clamour, if a stolid toad should stare
Sleepily forth from the snug corner where
They fain would rest. But I will sympathize
With beetle, rat, and toad. I have no care.
I curse Beelzebub--the God of Flies.

The tiny gnats they swarm in many a cloud,
To tangle their small limbs within my hair
And sting. The blood-flies dart: and buzzing loud
Blue-bottles draw mad patterns on the air.
The house-flies creep, and, what is hard to bear,
Feed on the poison papers advertise,
And rub their hands with relish of such fare!
I curse Beelzebub--the God of Flies.

_Envoi._

Prince--Clown of Europe--others shall make haste
To call damnation on your limbs and eyes.
Spending good oaths upon you were a waste:
I curse Beelzebub--the God of Flies.

TO THE KAISER

(_Confidentially_)

I met a man--a refugee,
And he was blind in both his eyes, sir.
And in his pate
A silver plate
(’Twas rather comical to see!)
Shone where the bone skull used to be
Before your shrapnel struck him, Kaiser.
Shattering in the self-same blast
(Blind as a tyrant in his dotage),
The foolish wife
Who risked her life,
As peasants will do till the last,
Clinging to one small Belgian cottage.

That was their home. The whining child
Beside him in the railway carriage
Was born there, and
The little land
Around it (now untilled and wild),
Was brought him by his wife on marriage.
The child was whining for its mother,
And interrupting half he said, sir.
I’ll never see the pair again....
Nor they the mother that lies dead, sir.

That’s all--a foolish tale, not worth
The ear of noble lord or Kaiser.
A man un-named,
By shrapnel maimed,
Wife slain, home levelled to the earth--
That’s all. You see no point? Nor I, sir.
Yet on the day you come to die, sir,
When all your war dreams cease to be,
Perchance will rise
Before your eyes
(Piercing your hollow heart, Sir Kaiser!)
The picture that I chanced to see,
Riding (we’ll say) from A to B.

ROBERT HERRICK SOLILOQUIZES ON THE C.O.

A sweet disorder in the dress
Kindles in him small kindliness.
My slack puttees him oft have thrown
Into a fine distraction.
An erring lace he cannot bear,
Nor the neglected, flowing hair.
Did he command that splendid force
The W.V.T.C., of course,
He’d see they dressed with careful art,
Very precise in every part.
And would, I’m certain, never dote
On the tempestuous petticoat.

THE THREE PADRES

(_Acrostics_)

_R. C. Chaplain._

Pale-faced, brown-eyed, slight,
Upon a lanky bay
Rides this modern knight
Down rain-beat road to-day;
In a little broken shrine
Emptying out the blessed wine.

_Wesleyan Chaplain._

Much loved by all who know you,
Especially you seem
Envied for smiles that show you
Kindness in a gleam.

_Church of England Chaplain._

Helm of our literary ship,
Editor of this Gazette,[2]
Luck be yours, although you whip
My muse into an awful sweat.

[2] _Fifth Gloucester Gazette._ See Introduction.

WALT WHITMAN DESCRIBES MAJOR W.

Nonchalantly he stands
On every step of life
Tapping his legging.

It is just the same
Whether we’re expecting
A Boche attack
Or Church Parade.

Nothing flusters him. Men
Confidently go
To do his bidding:
While he stands there

Revolving stunts;
And nonchalantly
Tapping his legging.

SERGEANT FINCH

He’s a popular sergeant, you bet,
For he’ll rough it along with his men,
And start up a song in the wet
To set ’em all smiling again.

His stories are naughty, I’m told,
His voice has a sonorous sound;
But the envy of all who behold
Is the way that his puttees are wound.

Blue-eyed, debonair, with a hat
Cocked sideways the eighth of an inch,
He’s sparrow-like: but for all that
The name in his pay-book is Finch.