HOSPITAL PICTURES (To the Nurses of Ward 24, Bangour War Hospital, near Edinburgh)

With quiet tread, with softly smiling faces The nurses move like music through the room; While broken men (known, technically, as “cases”) Watch them with eyes late deep in bitter gloom, As though the Spring were come with all the Graces, Or maiden April walked the ward in bloom. Men that have grown forgetful of Joy’s power, And old before their time, take courtesy So sweet of girl or woman, as if some flower Most strangely fair of Spring were suddenly Thick in the woods at Winter’s blackest hour— The gift unlocked for—lovely Charity. Their anguish they forget, and, worse, the slow Corruption of Joy’s springs; now breathe again The free breath was theirs so long ago. Courage renewed makes mock at the old pain. Life’s loveliness brings tears, and a new glow. Somehow their sacrifice seems not in vain.

Lying awake in the ward Long hours as any must, I wonder where the dust Comes from, the Dust, the Dust! That makes their life so hard,— The nurses, who must rub The soon appearing crust Of green on the bright knob. And little bits of fluff, Dull white upon the floor, Most soft, most curious stuff That sidles to the door When no one sees, and makes Deep wrinkles and heart-breaks; Light sighs and curses rough. Oh! if a scientist Of warm and kindly heart Should live a while apart, (Old Satan’s tail to twist,) Poring on crucibles, Vessels uncanny, till He won at last to Hell’s Grand secret of ill-will— How Fluff comes and how Dust, Then nurses all would paint Cheeks pretty for his sake; Or stay in prayer awake All night for that great Saint Of Cleanliness, that bright Devoted anchorite; Brave champion and true knight.

A soldier looked at me with blue hawk-eyes, With kindly glances sorrow had made wise, And talked till all I’d ever read in books Melted to ashes in his burning looks; And poets I’d despise and craft of pen, If, while he told his coloured wonder-tales Of Glasgow, Ypres, sea mist, spouting whales (Alive past words or power of writing men), My heart had not exulted in his brave Air of the wild woodland and sea wave; Or if, with each new sentence from his tongue, My high-triumphing spirit had not sung As in some April when the world was young.

He talked of Africa, That fat and easy man. I’d but to say a word, And straight the tales began. And when I’d wish to read, That man would not disclose A thought of harm, but sleep; Hard-breathing through his nose. Then when I’d wish to hear More tales of Africa, ’Twas but to wake him up, And but a word to say To press the button, and Keep quiet; nothing more; For tales of stretching veldt, Kaffir and sullen Boer. O what a lovely friend! O quiet easy life! I wonder if his sister Would care to be my wife....

Indomitable energy controlled By Fate to wayward ends and to half use, He should have given his service to the Muse, To most men shy, to him, her humble soldier, Frank-hearted, generous, bold. Yet though his fate be cross, he shall not tire Nor seek another service than his own: For selfless valour and the primal fire Shine out from him, as once from great Ulysses, That king without a throne.

O dull confounded Thing, You will not sing Though I distress your keys With thumps; in ecstasies Of wrath, at some mis-said Word of the deathless Dead! Chopin or dear Mozart, How must it break your heart To hear this Beast refuse The choice gifts of the Muse! And turn your airy thought With clumsiness to nought. I am guilty too, for I Have let the fine thing by; And spoilt high graciousness With a note more or less; Whose wandering fingers know Not surely where they go; Whose mind most weak, most poor, Your fire may not endure That’s passionate, that’s pure. And yet, and yet, men pale (Late under Passchendaele Or some such blot on earth) Feel once again the birth Of joy in them, and know That Beauty’s not a show Of lovely things long past. And stricken men at last Take heart and glimpse the light, Grow strong and comforted With eyes that challenge night, With proud-poised gallant head, And new-born keen delight. Beethoven, Schumann, Bach: These men do greatly lack, And you have greatly given. The fervent blue of Heaven They will see with purer eyes— Suffering has made them wise; Music shall make them sweet. If they shall see the stars More clearly after their wars, That is a good wage. Yours is a heritage Most noble and complete. And if we, blind, have gone Where a great glory shone, Or deaf, where angels sang; Forgive us, for you, too, A little blind were, knew Of weakness, once, the pang; Of darkness, once, the fear. And so, forgive this dear Pig-hearted chest of strings, And me, whose heart not sings Nor triumphs as do yours Within the Heavenly doors— Walking the clear unhindered level floors.