JOHN GOULD FLETCHER

Like a gaunt, scraggly pine Which lifts its head above the mournful sandhills; And patiently, through dull years of bitter silence, Untended and uncared for, starts to grow. Ungainly, labouring, huge, The wind of the north has twisted and gnarled its branches; Yet in the heat of midsummer days, when thunder-clouds ring the horizon, A nation of men shall rest beneath its shade. And it shall protect them all, Hold everyone safe there, watching aloof in silence; Until at last one mad stray bolt from the zenith Shall strike it in an instant down to earth.

There was a darkness in this man; an immense and hollow darkness, Of which we may not speak, nor share with him, nor enter; A darkness through which strong roots stretched downwards into the earth Towards old things; Towards the herdman-kings who walked the earth and spoke with God, Towards the wanderers who sought for they knew not what, and found their goal at last; Towards the men who waited, only waited patiently when all seemed lost, Many bitter winters of defeat; Down to the granite of patience These roots swept, knotted fibrous roots, prying, piercing, seeking, And drew from the living rock and the living waters about it The red sap to carry upwards to the sun. Not proud, but humble, Only to serve and pass on, to endure to the end through service; For the ax is laid at the roots of the trees, and all that bring not forth good fruit Shall be cut down on the day to come and cast into the fire.

There is a silence abroad in the land to-day, And in the hearts of men, a deep and anxious silence; And, because we are still at last, those bronze lips slowly open, Those hollow and weary eyes take on a gleam of light. Slowly a patient, firm-syllabled voice cuts through the end-less silence Like labouring oxen that drag a plow through the chaos of rude clay-fields: “I went forward as the light goes forward in early spring, But there were also many things which I left behind. “Tombs that were quiet; One, of a mother, whose brief light went out in the darkness, One, of a loved one, the snow on whose grave is long falling, One, only of a child, but it was mine. Have you forgot your graves? Go, question them in anguish, Listen long to their unstirred lips. From your hostages to silence, Learn there is no life without death, no dawn without sun setting, No victory but to him who has given all.”

The clamour of cannon dies down, the furnace-mouth of the battle is silent. The midwinter sun dips and descends, the earth takes on afresh its bright colours. But he whom we mocked and obeyed not, he whom we scorned and mistrusted, He has descended, like a god, to his rest. Over the uproar of cities, Over the million intricate threads of life wavering and crossing, In the midst of problems we know not, tangling, perplexing, ensnaring, Rises one white tomb alone. Beam over it, stars, Wrap it round, stripes—stripes red for the pain that he bore for you— Enfold it forever, O flag, rent, soiled, but repaired through your anguish; Long as you keep him there safe, the nations shall bow to your law. Strew over him flowers: Blue forget-me-nots from the north, and the bright pink arbutus From the east, and from the west rich orange blossom, But from the heart of the land take the passion-flower; Rayed, violet, dim, With the nails that pierced, the cross that he bore and the circlet, And beside it there lay also one lonely snow-white magnolia, Bitter for remembrance of the healing which has passed.

Under the sun which seems to halt and drip Down the long yellow line of heavy beeches, Striding in order along the hillside, There is a hedge of bramble and rose. Hour on hour I have wandered beside it, Heaping my basket with gleaming fruit, Staining my fingers and tearing my hands, Letting the clusters clutch me, Letting them wind their hooked fingers about me—seeking no way of escape. Purple-blue globes amid the brambles, Tangled with scarlet hips of roses, And the hazy, lazy autumn Drifting out with the drifting leaves; Down the hill the slow movements of browsing cattle, Up the hill the shrill laughter of children Fighting their way through the tangle Towards the drooping spoil. Grey ‘old-man’s-beard’ covers densely the tops of the brambles, And against it project the scarlet hips of the roses, Against the greenery flashing Like lanterns swung through the leaves:— Up above them, wavering slowly, The undergrowth flares out in scarlet, And, above it, the yellow tips of the beeches Almost motionless, Now and then drop slowly a spear of flame to the earth. Under the sun which seems to stop and quiver At the edge of the hill, under the ledge of the beech-trees, Like a wave arrested suddenly by a cliff of yellow rock; Slipping quickly down to the ocean again, Filling with haze the distant dusty ocean Of stubble-fields on the horizon— The air is thick with heavy sweetness Perfume of ripening berries, Crimson turning to purple, Wine of the autumn sun. And there wells up in me a drunken impulse of autumn, To fling myself in the tangle; Let it tear my clothes to tatters and slash across my cheeks; To crush the berries and trample Their sweetness, with the laughter Of red cheeked children scrambling Across the fallen leaves:— To find myself a faun again, freed from the restraint of houses, With red-stained face a-leering Out of the dense, deep web of interlacing thorn: A girdle of scarlet berries slung carelessly over my shoulder, A crown of glistening purple berries gleaming in my hair.

The sky is covered with light white wisps of cloud; Afar in the pale and hazy sky A lone star glitters—flickers—glitters Over the thin-leaved motionless trees, Standing in washes of darkness Upon the blue grey of the distance, Which seems so far—so remote—so very far As if the moon itself Were nearer earth than it. Now a thin cloud blows suddenly across the face of the moon, And the patterns of the shadows run quickly together; The mysterious earth sinks down Beneath the darkness pressing firmly upon it. A vague leaf glances coldly as the moonlight Strikes again athwart the tangle of lightly-swaying tree-tops, And where the stems are closely ranked together In the hollows there is darkness, As if they were intently watching something, Which they would never let escape. This night is not as is the night of cities, Where all seems like a flitting dance of phantoms With wavering traffic Under red lamps; For I have seen men passing to the theatre Who seemed to walk as people walk in sleep, Deliberate, gravely smiling, With passionless, shut eyes; And I have seen the trees asleep in daylight, Rocked by the wind and nodding To every gossipy bird:— But in the night no woodcutter hews the hard bark, And not a wind lifts up a single leaf-tip But that the tree has challenged it to blow. On the other side of the house, where the road passes, The moon lights up a neighbour’s red-tiled roof-top; It looks like an old tortoise sleeping soundly Upon the shore of an undiscovered sea.

Above the east horizon, The great red flower of the dawn Opens slowly, petal by petal; The trees emerge from darkness With ghostly silver leaves, Dew-powdered. Now consciousness emerges Reluctantly out of tides of sleep; Finding with cold surprise No strange new thing to match its dreams, But merely the familiar shapes Of bedpost, window-pane, and wall. Within the city, The streets which were the last to fall to sleep, Hold yet stale fragments of the night. Sleep oozes out of stagnant ash-barrels, Sleep drowses over litter in the streets. Sleep nods upon the milkcans by back doors. And, in shut rooms, Behind the lowered window-blinds, Drawn white faces unwittingly flout the day. But, at the edges of the city, Sleep is already washed away; Light filters through the moist green leaves, It runs into the cups of flowers, It leaps in sparks through drops of dew, It whirls against the window-panes With waking birds; Blinds are rolled up and chimneys smoke, Feet clatter past on silent paths, And down white vanishing ways of steel, A dozen railway trains converge Upon night’s stronghold.

Under the soft grey windswept sky, Between two rows of yellow trees Soddenly dripping; The brown backs of an army Go marching. Like an enormous snake with undulatory movement, Past the old church with scarlet ivy hooding its stiff grey walls, Past the drowsy churchyard, Where wet leaves cling to the stones, Up the hill and past the village, Through the curving lines of hedgerows, Beyond the brow of the hill, lost in brown stubble, The brown backs of an army Go writhing into the distance. Under the flying clouds that hide the eastern sky, Footfalls, footfalls, repeated clamour of footfall;— One, two, left, right, the road is full of them— And the noise rises and strives to cling To the wet wind-blown branches, It penetrates the empty church and echoes up the aisle. Whirling leaves drift over the endless footfalls, Striving to hush them to quiet; O agonised hands! Under the soft grey rainy sky Of October; Under the swirling leaves that fall and settle amid them, Silent files of men, stiffly-backed and sombre, With a jagged fringe of rifles projecting from every shoulder, Move like an immense machine with a million feet; Marching, Into the darkness steadily marching, Incessantly swinging and falling, Swallowed up in the twistings of the hills, Vanishing amid the confused brown stubble of the earth. And the old earth holds its breath and listens: Was that a shot, a sob, a strangling cry? Silence. Only the trees hold out their empty arms in yearning, And a flight of rooks across them goes clanging away before night.