Chapter I: HAVE seen Death and the faces of men in fear

Of Death, and shattered, terribly ruined flesh,
Appalled; but through the horror, coloured and clear
The love of my county, Gloster, rises afresh.

And on the Day of Days, the Judgment Day,
The Word of Doom awaiting breathless and still,
I’ll marvel how sweet’s the air down Framilode way,
And take my sentence on sheer-down Crickley Hill.

SCOTS

THE boys who laughed and jested with me but yesterday,
So fit for kings to speak to, so blithe and proud and gay ...
Are now but thoughts of blind pain, and best hid away....
(Over the top this morning at the dawn’s first grey.)

O, if we catch the Kaiser his dirty hide to flay,
We’ll hang him on a tall tree his pride to allay.
That will not bring the boys again to mountain and brae....
(Over the top this morning at the dawn’s first grey.)

To think--earth’s best and dearest turned to red broken clay
By one devil’s second! What words can we say?
Or what gift has God their mothers’ anguish to repay?...
(Over the top this morning at the first flush of day.)

TO AN UNKNOWN LADY

YOU that were once so sweet, are sweeter now
That an even leaden greyness clouds my days;
A pain it is to think on your sweet ways,
Your careless-tender speaking, tender and low.
When the hills enclosed us, hid in happy valleys,
Greeting a thousand times the things most dear,
We wasted thoughts of love in laughter clear,
And told our passion out in mirthful sallies.
But in me now a burning impulse rages
To praise our love in words like flaming gold,
Molten and live for ever; not fit for cold
And coward like-to-passions Time assuages.
Nor do I fear you are lovely only in dreams,
Being as the sky reflected in clear streams.

SONG AND PAIN

OUT of my sorrow have I made these songs,
Out of my sorrow;
Though somewhat of the making’s eager pain
From Joy did borrow.

Some day, I trust, God’s purpose of Pain for me
Shall be complete,
And then--to enter in the House of Joy....
Prepare, my feet.

PURPLE AND BLACK

THE death of princes is
Honoured most greatly,
Proud kings put purple on
In manner stately.

Though they have lived such life
As God offends,
Gone fearful down to death,
Sick, without friends.

And in the temple dim,
Trumpets of gold
Proclaim their glory; so
Their story is told.

In sentimental hymns
Weeping her dolour,
The mother of heroes wears
Vile black--Death’s colour,

Who should walk proudly with
The noblest one
Of all that purple throng--
“This was my son.”

WEST COUNTRY

SPRING comes soon to Maisemore
And spring comes sweet,
With bird-songs and blue skies,
On gay dancing feet;
But she is such a shy lady
I fear we’ll never meet.

Yet some day round a corner
Where the hedge foams white,
I’ll find Spring sleeping
In the young-crescent night,
And seize her and make her
Yield all her delight.

But yon’s a glad story
That’s yet to be told.
Here’s grey winter’s bareness
And no-shadowed cold.
O Spring, with your music,
Your blue, green, and gold,
Come shame his hard wisdom
With laughter and gold!

FIRELIGHT

SILENT, bathed in firelight, in dusky light and gloom
The boys squeeze together in the smoky dirty room,
Crowded round the fireplace, a thing of bricks and tin,
They watch the shifting embers till the good dreams enter in,

That fill the low hovel with blossoms fresh with dew,
And blue sky and white clouds that sail the clear air through.
They talk of daffodillies and the bluebells’ skiey bed,
Till silence thrills and murmurs at the things they have said.

And yet, they have no skill of words, whose eyes glow so deep,
They wait for night and silence and the strange power of sleep,
To lift them and drift them like sea-birds over the sea
Where some day I shall walk again, and they walk with me.

THE ESTAMINET

THE crowd of us were drinking
One night at Riez Bailleul,
The glasses were a-clinking,
The estaminet was full;

And loud with song and story
And blue with tales and smoke,--
We spoke no word of glory,
Nor mentioned “foreign yoke.”

But yarns of girls in Blighty;
Vain, jolly, ugly, fair,
Standoffish, foolish, flighty--
And O! that we were there!

Where never thuds a “Minnie,”
But Minnie smiles at you
A-meeting in the spinney,
With kisses not a few.

And of an inn that Johnson
Does keep; the “Rising Sun.”
His friends him call Jack Johnson,
He’s Gloster’s only one.

And talk of poachers’ habits
(But girls ever and again)
Of killing weasels, rabbits,
Stoats, pheasants, never men,

Although we knew to-morrow
Must take us to the line,
In beer hid thought and sorrow,
In ruddy and white wine.

When all had finished drinking,
Though still was clear each head,
We said no word--went slinking
Straight homeward (?), into bed (?).

O never lads were merrier
Nor straighter nor more fine,
Though we were only “Terrier”
And only, “Second Line.”

O I may get to Blighty,
Or hell, without a sign
Of all the love that filled me,
Leave dumb the love that filled me,
The flood of love that filled me
For these dear comrades of mine.

SONG

ONLY the wanderer
Knows England’s graces,
Or can anew see clear
Familiar faces.

And who loves joy as he
That dwells in shadows?
Do not forget me quite,
O Severn meadows.

BALLAD OF THE THREE SPECTRES

AS I went up by Ovillers
In mud and water cold to the knee,
There went three jeering, fleering spectres,
That walked abreast and talked of me.

The first said, “Here’s a right brave soldier
That walks the dark unfearingly;
Soon he’ll come back on a fine stretcher,
And laughing for a nice Blighty.”

The second, “Read his face, old comrade,
No kind of lucky chance I see;
One day he’ll freeze in mud to the marrow,
Then look his last on Picardie.”

Though bitter the word of these first twain
Curses the third spat venomously;
“He’ll stay untouched till the war’s last dawning
Then live one hour of agony.”

Liars the first two were. Behold me
At sloping arms by one--two--three;
Waiting the time I shall discover
Whether the third spake verity.

COMMUNION

BEAUTY lies so deep
On all the fields,
Nothing for the eyes
But blessing yields.

Tall elms, greedy of light,
Stand tip-toe. See
The last light linger in
Their tracery.

The guns are dumb, are still
All evil noises.
The singing heart in peace
Softly rejoices,

Only unsatisfied
With Beauty’s hunger
And sacramental thirst--
Nothing of anger.

Mist wraiths haunt the path
As daylight lessens,
The stars grow clearer, and
My dead friend’s presence.

TIME AND THE SOLDIER

HOW slow you move, old Time;
Walk a bit faster!
Old fool, I’m not your slave....
Beauty’s my master!

You hold me for a space....
What are you, Time?
A ghost, a thing of thought,
An easy rhyme.

Some day I shall again,
For all your scheming,
See Severn valley clouds
Like banners streaming.

And walk in Cranham lanes,
By Maisemore go....
But, fool, decrepit Fool,
You are SO SLOW!!!

INFLUENCES

WHEN woods of home grow dark,
I grow dark too.
Images of strange power
Fill me and thrill me that hour,
Sombre of hue.

The woods of Dunsinane
I walk, and know
What storms did shake Macbeth,
That brought on Duncan’s death,
And his own woe.

Strange whispers chill the blood
Of evil breath;
Such rumours as did stir
Witch and foul sorcerer
On the lone heath.

No power have these on me;
I know too well
Their weakness to condemn.
Spring will exorcise them
With one bluebell.

AFTER-GLOW

[_TO_ F. W. HARVEY]

OUT of the smoke and dust of the little room
With tea-talk loud and laughter of happy boys,
I passed into the dusk. Suddenly the noise
Ceased with a shock, left me alone in the gloom,
To wonder at the miracle hanging high
Tangled in twigs, the silver crescent clear.--
Time passed from mind. Time died; and then we were
Once more at home together, you and I.

The elms with arms of love wrapped us in shade
Who watched the ecstatic West with one desire,
One soul uprapt; and still another fire
Consumed us, and our joy yet greater made:
That Bach should sing for us, mix us in one
The joy of firelight and the sunken sun.

HAIL AND FAREWELL

THE destined bullet wounded him,
They brought him down to die,
Far-off a bugle sounded him
“Retreat,” Good-bye.

Strange, that from ways so hated,
And tyranny so hard
Should come this strangely fated
And farewell word.

He thought, “Some Old Sweat might
Have thrilled at heart to hear,
Gone down into the night
Too proud to fear!

But I--the fool at arms,
Musician, poet to boot,
Who hail release; what charms
In this salute?”

He smiled--“The latest jest
That time on me shall play.”
And watched the dying west,
Went out with the day.

PRAISE

O friends of mine, if men mock at my name,
Say “Children loved him.”
Since by that word you will have far removed him
From any bitter shame.

WINTER BEAUTY