INTRODUCTION

You clouds that with the wind your warden Flying toward the Channel go, Or ever the frost your fruit shall harden To hail and sleet and driving snow, Go seek one sunny old sweet garden— An English garden that I know. Therein perchance my Mother, straying Among her dahlias, shall see Your rainy gems in sunlight swaying On flower of gold and emerald tree. Then in her heart feel suddenly Old love and laughter, like sunshine playing Through tears of memory.

Oh where’s the use to write? What can I tell you, dear? Just that I want you so Who are not near. Just that I miss the lamp whose blessèd light Was God’s own moon to shine upon my night, And newly mourn each new day’s lost delight: Just—oh, it will not ease my pain— That I am lonely Until I see you once again, You—you only.

Here where no tree changes, Here in a prison of pine, I think how Autumn ranges The country that is mine. There—rust upon the chill breeze— The woodland leaf now whirls; There sway the yellowing birches Like dainty dancing girls. Oh, how the leaves are dancing With Death at Lassington! And Death is now enhancing Beauty I walked upon. The roads with leaves are littered, Yellow, brown, and red. The homes where robins twittered Lie ruin; but instead Gaunt arms of stretching giants Stand in the azure air, Cutting the sky in pattern So common, yet so fair. The heart is kindled by it, And lifted as with wine, In Lassington and Highnam— The woodlands that were mine.

Walking round our cages like the lions at the Zoo, We think of things that we have done, and things we mean to do: Of girls we left behind us, of letters that are due, Of boating on the river beneath a sky of blue, Of hills we climbed together—not always for the view. Walking round our cages like the lions at the Zoo, We see the phantom faces of you, and you, and you, Faces of those we loved or loathed—oh every one we knew! And deeds we wrought in carelessness for happiness or rue, And dreams we broke in folly, and seek to build anew,— Walking round our cages like the lions at the Zoo.

Comrades of risk and rigour long ago Who have done battle under honour’s name, Hoped (living or shot down) some meed of fame, And wooed bright Danger for a thrilling kiss,— Laugh, oh laugh well, that we have come to this! Laugh, oh laugh loud, all ye who long ago Adventure found in gallant company! Safe in Stagnation, laugh, laugh bitterly, While on this filthiest backwater of Time’s flow Drift we and rot, till something set us free! Laugh like old men with senses atrophied, Heeding no Present, to the Future dead, Nodding quite foolish by the warm fireside And seeing no flame, but only in the red And flickering embers, pictures of the past:— Life like a cinder fading black at last.

My undevout yet ardent sacrifice Did God refuse, knowing how carelessly And with what curious sensuality The coloured flames did flicker and arise. Half boy, half decadent, always my eyes Sparkle to danger: Oh it was joy to me To sit with Death gambling desperately The borrowed Coin of Life. But you, more wise, Went forth for nothing but to do God’s will: Went gravely out—well knowing what you did And hating it—with feet that did not falter To place your gift upon the highest altar. Therefore to you this last and finest thrill Is given—even Death itself, to me forbid.

Oh pleasant things there be Without this prison yard: Fields green, and many a tree With shadow on the sward, And drifting clouds that pass Sailing above the grass. All lovely things that be Beyond this strong abode Send comfort back to me; Yea, everything I see Except the hateful road; The road that runs so free With many a dip and rise, That waves and beckons me And mocks and calls at me And will not let me be Even when I close my eyes.

Snapdragon, sunflower, sweet-pea, Flowers which fill the heart of me With so sweet and bitter fancy: Glowing rose and pensive pansy, You that pierce me with a blade Beat from molten memory, With what art, how tenderly, You heal the wounds that you have made! Thrushes, finches, birds that beat Magical and thrilling sweet Little far-off fairy gongs: Blackbird with your mellow songs, Valiant robin, thieving sparrows, Though you wound me as with arrows, Still with you among these flowers Surely I find my sweetest hours.

Once, I remember, when we were at home I had come into church, and waited late, Ere lastly kneeling to communicate Alone: and thinking that you would not come. Then, with closed eyes (having received the Host) I prayed for your dear self, and turned to rise; When lo! beside me like a blessed ghost— Nay, a grave sunbeam—you! Scarcely my eyes Could credit it, so softly had you come Beside me as I thought I walked alone. Thus long ago; but now, when fate bereaves Life of old joys, how often as I’m kneeling To take the Blessed Sacrifice that weaves Life’s tangled threads, so broken to man’s seeing, Into one whole; I have the sudden feeling That you are by, and look to see a face Made in fair flesh beside me, and all my being Thrills with the old sweet wonder and faint fear As in that sabbath hour—how long ago!— When you had crept so lightly to your place. Then, then, I know (My heart can always tell) that you are near.

How should I sing you?—you who dwell unseen Within the darkest chamber of my heart. What picturesque and inward-turning art Could shadow forth the image of my queen, Sweet, world aloof, ineffably serene Like holy dawn, yet so entirely part Of what am I, as well a man might start To paint his breathing, or his red blood’s sheen. Nay, seek yourself, who are their truest breath, In these my songs made for delight of men. Oh, where they fail, ’tis I that am in blame, But, where the words loom larger than my pen, Be sure they ring glad echoes of your name, And Love that triumphs over Life and Death.

I cannot give you happiness: For wishes long have ceased to bring The Fortune which to page and king They brought in those good centuries, When with a quaint and starry wand Witches turned poor men’s thoughts to gold And Cinderella’s carriage rolled Through moonlight into Fairyland. I may but wish you happiness: Not Pleasure’s dusty fruit to find, But wines of Mirth and Friendship kind, And Love, to make with you a home. But may Our Lord whose Son has come Now heed the wish and make it true, Even as elves were wont to do When wishing could bring happiness.

K ings of the East did bring their gold A nd jewels unto the cattle fold. T he angel’s song was heard by men “H oly! holy! holy!” then. L ittle and weak in the manger He lay E ven as you in a cradle to-day; E ven as you did the Christ-child rest N estling warm in His mother’s breast. Gütersloh, December 1916.

Outside, white snow And freezing mire. The heart of the house Is a blazing fire! Even so whatever hags do ride His outward fortune, withinside The heart of a man burns Christmastide!

Old year, farewell! Much have you given which was ill to bear: Much have taken which was dear, so dear: Much have you spoken which was ill to hear; Echoes of speech first uttered deep in hell. Pass now like some grey harlot to the tomb! Yet die in child-birth, and from out your womb Leap the young year unsullied! He perchance Shall bring to man his lost inheritance.

Bodies of comrade soldiers gleaming white Within the mill-pool where you float and dive And lounge around part-clothed or naked quite; Beautiful shining forms of men alive, O living lutes stringed with the senses five For Love’s sweet fingers; seeing Fate afar, My very soul with Death for you must strive; Because of you I loathe the name of War. But O you piteous corpses yellow-black, Rotting unburied in the sunbeam’s light, With teeth laid bare by yellow lips curled back Most hideously; whose tortured souls took flight Leaving your limbs, all mangled by the fight, In attitudes of horror fouler far Than dreams which haunt a devil’s brain at night; Because of you I loathe the name of War. Mothers and maids who loved you, and the wives Bereft of your sweet presences; yea, all Who knew you beautiful; and those small lives Made of that knowledge; O, and you who call For life (but vainly now) from that dark hall Where wait the Unborn, and the loves which are In future generations to befall; Because of you I loathe the name of War. L’ENVOI Prince Jesu, hanging stark upon a tree Crucified as the malefactors are That man and man henceforth should brothers be; Because of you I loathe the name of War.

You dawns, whose loveliness I have not missed, Making so delicate background for the larches Melting the hills to softest amethyst; O beauty never absent from our marches; Passion of heaven shot golden through the arches Of woods, or filtered softly from a star, Nature’s wild love that never cloys or parches; Because of you I love the name of War. I have seen dawn and sunset, night and morning, I have tramped tired and dusty to a tune Of singing voices tired as I, but scorning To yield up gaiety to sweltering June. O comrades marching under blazing noon Who told me tales in taverns near and far, And sang and slept with me beneath the moon; Because of you I love the name of War. But you most dear companions Life and Death, Whose friendship I had never valued well Until that Battle blew with fiery breath Over the earth his message terrible; Crying aloud the things Peace could not tell, Calling up ancient custom to the bar Of God, to plead its cause with Heaven and Hell ... Because of you I love the name of War. L’ENVOI Prince Jesu, who did speak the amazing word Loud, trumpet-clear, flame-flashing like a star Which falls: “Not peace I bring you, but the sword!” Because of you I love the name of War.

No mortal comes to visit me to-day, Only the gay and early-rising Sun Who strolled in nonchalantly, just to say, “Good morrow, and despair not, foolish one!” But like the tune which comforted King Saul Sounds in my brain that sunny madrigal. Anon the playful Wind arises, swells Into vague music, and departing, leaves A sense of blue bare heights and tinkling bells, Audible silences which sound achieves Through music, mountain streams, and hinted heather, And drowsy flocks drifting in golden weather. Lastly, as to my bed I turn for rest. Comes Lady Moon herself on silver feet To sit with one white arm across my breast, Talking of elves and haunts where they do meet. No mortal comes to see me, yet I say “Oh, I have had fine visitors to-day!” Douai, August 20th, 1916.

Big glory mellowing on the mellowing hills, And in the little valleys, thatch and dreams, Wrought by the manifold and vagrant wills Of sun and ripening rain and wind; so gleams My country, that great magic cup which spills Into my mind a thousand thousand streams Of glory mellowing on the mellowing hills And in the little valleys, thatch and dreams. O you dear heights of blue no ploughman tills, O valleys where the curling mist upsteams White over fields of trembling daffodils, And you old dusty little water-mills, Through all my life, for joy of you, sweet thrills Shook me, and in my death at last there beams Big glory mellowing on the mellowing hills And in the little valleys, thatch and dreams.

I will not take the great road that goes so proud and high, Like the march of Roman legions that made it long ago; But I will choose another way, a little road I know. There no poor tramp goes limping, nor rich poor men drive by, Nor ever crowding cattle, or sheep in dusty throng Before their beating drovers drift cruelly along: But only birds and free things, and ever in my ear Sound of the leaves and little tongues of water talking near. The great roads march on boldly, with scarce a curve or bend, From some huge smoky Nothing, to Nothing at their end; They march like Cæsar’s legions, and none may them withstand, But whence, or whither going, they do not understand, But oh, the little twisty road, The sweet and lover’s-kiss-ty road, The secret winding misty road, That leads to Fairyland!

Christ God, Who died for us, now turn Thy face! Behold not what men do, lest once again Thou should’st be crucified, and die of pain. Look not, O Lord, but only of Thy grace Do Thou let fall on this accursed place, Where the poor starve and labour in disdain Of blinded Greed and all its vulgar train, A single thread of heaven that we may trace Some way to Right! And since “great men” stand by, Heedless of women and men that hunger, Lord, Give Thou to common men the vision splendid. Take (and if need be break) them, like a sword; Take them, and break them till their lives be ended; Here are a thousand christs ready to die!

Sweet Motherland, what have I done for thee, What suffered, what of lasting beauty made? I who ungratefully and undismayed Drank from thy breast the milk which nourished me In childhood, which until my death must be The life within my veins. Lo, from that shade Wherein they rest, thy dead and mine, arrayed In honour’s robes, come clear and plaintively Voices for ever to my listening ear Which cry, “Not yet is finished England’s fight! Still, still must poets strive and martyrs bleed To overthrow the enemies of Light, Armies of Dullness, Cruelty, Lust, and Greed!” Yet what have I done for thee, England dear?

You never crept into the night That lurks for all mankind! Joyous you lived and loved, and leapt Into that gaping dark, where stept Our Fathers all, to find Old honour—jest of fools, yet still the soul of all delight.

A battered roof where stars went tripping With silver feet, A broken roof whence rain came dripping, Yet rest was sweet. A dug-out where the rats ran squeaking Under the ground, And out in front the poor dead reeking! Yet sleep was sound. No longer house or dug-out keeping, Within a cell Of brown and bloody earth they’re sleeping; Oh they sleep well. Thrice blessed sleep, the balm of sorrow! Thrice blessed eyes Sealed up till on some doomsday morrow The sun arise!

Comrades o’ mine, that were to me More than my grief and gaiety, More than my laughter or my pain: Comrades, we shall not walk again The road whereon we went so free— The old way of Humanity. But you are sleeping peacefully Till the last dawn, heroic slain, Comrades o’ mine. Till the last moon shall fade and flee You sleep. Oh sleep not dreamlessly, You whereof only dreams remain, Come you by dreams into my brain, Inspire my visions, and still be Comrades o’ mine!

Dear, rash, warm-hearted friend, So careless of the end, So worldly-foolish, so divinely-wise, Who, caring not one jot For place, gave all you’d got To help your lesser fellow-men to rise. Swift-footed, fleeter yet Of heart. Swift to forget The petty spite that life or men could show you; Your last long race is won, But beyond the sound of gun You laugh and help men onward—if I know you. Oh still you laugh, and walk, And sing and frankly talk (To angels) of the matters that amused you In this bitter-sweet of life, And we who keep its strife, Take comfort in the thought how God has used you.

In general, if you want a man to do a dangerous job:— Say, swim the Channel, climb St. Paul’s, or break into and rob The Bank of England, why, you find his wages must be higher Than if you merely wanted him to light the kitchen fire. But in the British Army, it’s just the other way, And the maximum of danger means the minimum of pay. You put some men inside a trench, and call them infantrie, And make them face ten kinds of hell, and face it cheerfully; And live in holes like rats, with other rats, and lice, and toads, And in their leisure time, assist the R.E.’s with their loads. Then, when they’ve done it all, you give ’em each a bob a day! For the maximum of danger means the minimum of pay. We won’t run down the A.S.C., nor yet the R.T.O. They ration and direct us on the way we’ve got to go. They’re very useful people, and it’s pretty plain to see We couldn’t do without ’em, nor yet the A.P.C. But comparing risks and wages,—I think they all will say That the maximum of danger means the minimum of pay. There are men who make munitions—and seventy bob a week; They never see a lousy trench nor hear a big shell shriek; And others sing about the war at high-class music-halls Getting heaps and heaps of money and encores from the stalls. They “keep the home fires burning” and bright by night and day, While the maximum of danger means the minimum of pay. I wonder if it’s harder to make big shells at a bench, Than to face the screaming beggars when they’re crumping up a trench; I wonder if it’s harder to sing in mellow tones Of danger, than to face it—say, in a wood like Trone’s; Is discipline skilled labour, or something children play? Should the maximum of danger mean the minimum of pay?

Satan, old friend and enemy of man; Lord of the shadows and the sins whereby We wretches glimpse the sun in Virtue’s sky Guessing at last the wideness of His plan Who fashioned kid and tiger, slayer and slain, The paradox of evil, and the pain Which threshes joy as with a winnowing fan: Satan, of old your custom ’twas at least To throw an apple to the soul you caught Robbing your orchard. You, before you wrought Damnation due and marked it with the beast, Before its eyes were e’en disposed to dangle Fruitage delicious. And you would not mangle Nor maul the body of the dear deceased. But you were called familiarly “Old Nick”— The Devil, yet a gentleman you know! Relentless—true, yet courteous to a foe. Man’s soul your traffic was. You would not kick His bloody entrails flying in the air. Oh, “Krieg ist Krieg,” we know, and “C’est la guerre!” But Satan, don’t you feel a trifle sick?

We have taken a trench Near Combles, I see, Along with the French. We have taken a trench. (Oh, the bodies, the stench!) Won’t you have some more tea? We have taken a trench Near Combles, I see.

Moth-like at night you flit or fly To where the other patients lie; I hear, as you brush by my door The flutter of your wings, no more. Shall I now call you in and see The phantom vanish instantly? Perhaps some sixteen stone or worse, Suddenly falling through my verse! Nay, be you sour, or be you sweet, I’d see you not. Life’s wisdom is To keep one’s dreams. Oh never quiz The lovely lady in the street! I knew a man who went large-eyed And happy, till he bought pince-nez And saw things as they were. He died —A pessimist—the other day.

My father bred great horses, Chestnut, grey, and brown. They grazed about the meadows, And trampled into town. They left the homely meadows And trampled far away, The great shining horses, Chestnut, and brown, and grey. Gone are the horses That my father bred. And who knows whither?... Or whether starved or fed?... Gone are the horses, And my father’s dead.

“Bow-wow! Bow-wow!” See how he bounds and prances, “Wow!” races off, returns again and dances— A little wave of sunshine and brown fur— About his old rheumatic mother-cur. Look how she gives him back his baby bite Tenderly as a human mother might. Now, poor old thing—she gazes quaintly up To laugh dog-fashion at me. “What a pup, Master!” she seems to say: then, like a wave, He’s down on her again—“Oh, master, see, I’m growing old.... What spirits youngsters have!” Her old eyes blink as they look up at me.