HILL 60

As some far swimmer, turning, views once more England’s white cliffs, and strongly cleaves t’ward shore, But, tide-encumbered, faints; so far and dear Thy crystal arms and pillared throat appear, Love, to thy soldier who makes earth his bed In this grey catacomb of unnamed dead. Thy voice, o’er tossing seas of eves and dawns, Comes like dim music heard on magic lawns; And, when in prayer thou kneelest, this grim brow Feels the cool benison of hands which thou Wouldst often grant. Now know I ’twas not vain Our love, whose memory softens present pain. C. J. N.