Part 2

Of Gonnehem it shall be said That we arrived there late and worn With marching, and were given a bed Of lovely straw. And then at morn On rising from deep sleep saw dangle-- Shining in the sun to spangle, The all-blue heaven--branch loads of red Bright cherries which we bought to eat, Dew-wet, dawn-cool, and sunny-sweet. There was a tiny court-yard too, Wherein one shady walnut grew. Unruffled peace the farm encloses-- I wonder if beneath that tree, The meditating hens still be. Are the white walls now gay with roses? Does the small fountain yet run free? I wonder if that dog still dozes.... Some day we must go back to see.

THE REST FARM

Into this quiet place Of peace we come. The War God hides his face, His mouth is dumb.

All reckless, wild decrees His lips repeat, Are hushed by a little breeze In waving wheat.

And, like the penance-peace In a heart forlorn, Thrills the word of the trees-- The sigh of the corn.

BALLADE OF BEELZEBUB, GOD OF FLIES

Some men there are will not abide a rat Within their bivvy. If one chance to peep At them through little beady eyes, then pat, They throw a boot and rouse a mate from sleep To hunt the thing, and on its head they heap Curses quite inappropriate to its size. I care for none of these, but broad and deep I curse Beelzebub--the God of Flies.

Others may hunt the mouse with bayonet bright, And beard the glittering beetle in his lair, And fill the arches of the ancient night With clamour, if a stolid toad should stare Sleepily forth from the snug corner where They fain would rest. But I will sympathize With beetle, rat, and toad. I have no care. I curse Beelzebub--the God of Flies.

The tiny gnats they swarm in many a cloud, To tangle their small limbs within my hair And sting. The blood-flies dart: and buzzing loud Blue-bottles draw mad patterns on the air. The house-flies creep, and, what is hard to bear, Feed on the poison papers advertise, And rub their hands with relish of such fare! I curse Beelzebub--the God of Flies.

_Envoi._

Prince--Clown of Europe--others shall make haste To call damnation on your limbs and eyes. Spending good oaths upon you were a waste: I curse Beelzebub--the God of Flies.

TO THE KAISER

(_Confidentially_)

I met a man--a refugee, And he was blind in both his eyes, sir. And in his pate A silver plate (’Twas rather comical to see!) Shone where the bone skull used to be Before your shrapnel struck him, Kaiser. Shattering in the self-same blast (Blind as a tyrant in his dotage), The foolish wife Who risked her life, As peasants will do till the last, Clinging to one small Belgian cottage.

That was their home. The whining child Beside him in the railway carriage Was born there, and The little land Around it (now untilled and wild), Was brought him by his wife on marriage. The child was whining for its mother, And interrupting half he said, sir. I’ll never see the pair again.... Nor they the mother that lies dead, sir.

That’s all--a foolish tale, not worth The ear of noble lord or Kaiser. A man un-named, By shrapnel maimed, Wife slain, home levelled to the earth-- That’s all. You see no point? Nor I, sir. Yet on the day you come to die, sir, When all your war dreams cease to be, Perchance will rise Before your eyes (Piercing your hollow heart, Sir Kaiser!) The picture that I chanced to see, Riding (we’ll say) from A to B.

ROBERT HERRICK SOLILOQUIZES ON THE C.O.

A sweet disorder in the dress Kindles in him small kindliness. My slack puttees him oft have thrown Into a fine distraction. An erring lace he cannot bear, Nor the neglected, flowing hair. Did he command that splendid force The W.V.T.C., of course, He’d see they dressed with careful art, Very precise in every part. And would, I’m certain, never dote On the tempestuous petticoat.

THE THREE PADRES

(_Acrostics_)

_R. C. Chaplain._

Pale-faced, brown-eyed, slight, Upon a lanky bay Rides this modern knight Down rain-beat road to-day; In a little broken shrine Emptying out the blessed wine.

_Wesleyan Chaplain._

Much loved by all who know you, Especially you seem Envied for smiles that show you Kindness in a gleam.

_Church of England Chaplain._

Helm of our literary ship, Editor of this Gazette,[2] Luck be yours, although you whip My muse into an awful sweat.

[2] _Fifth Gloucester Gazette._ See Introduction.

WALT WHITMAN DESCRIBES MAJOR W.

Nonchalantly he stands On every step of life Tapping his legging.

It is just the same Whether we’re expecting A Boche attack Or Church Parade.

Nothing flusters him. Men Confidently go To do his bidding: While he stands there

Revolving stunts; And nonchalantly Tapping his legging.

SERGEANT FINCH

He’s a popular sergeant, you bet, For he’ll rough it along with his men, And start up a song in the wet To set ’em all smiling again.

His stories are naughty, I’m told, His voice has a sonorous sound; But the envy of all who behold Is the way that his puttees are wound.

Blue-eyed, debonair, with a hat Cocked sideways the eighth of an inch, He’s sparrow-like: but for all that The name in his pay-book is Finch.

C COMPANY COOK

“Do you want j-jam on it?” he’d say, Twirling a red moustache. We chaffed him over rations every day, “Say, is this tea or hash?” “Jim, tell us, do, Why you put sugar in the blooming stew.” “--And there’s a heap o’ coal in this--not half!...” To all our chaff “Do you want j-jam on it?” he’d say.

EPITAPH

(_T. D._, 13/3/16)

A shallow trench for one so tall! “Heads down”--no need for that old call Beneath the upturned sod. Safe lies his body, never fret, Behind that crumpled parapet, And over all this wind and wet His soul sits safe with God.

SONNET

(_To H. M._)

Him, the gods, loving, took while life was young.... Say rather (clinging to a wiser creed) God took, and suddenly on wings of speed Bore to the utter quietness far flung Of fields Elysian where the horrid tongue Of battle is not. For He knew his need Better than those who knew him well indeed, Loving him best. Above his grave is rung The death-bell of all things which hurt the sense And vex the mind and plague the soul of man, Tingeing the rainbow colours of his best Dreams drably: and hath cried a voice, “Go hence! Old Angel Time, to weary whom you can, The while my well-beloved child hath rest.”

THE FIRST SPRING DAY

(_To A. E. S._)

We laid you fast in frozen clay When Winter had enchained the land. (Lad, was it but three weeks to-day?) And now comes Springtime’s messenger with golden tidings in his hand.

A mist blows off the thawing earth, And drips from every budding tree, The springs are loosed, and mad with mirth Run lisping in the fallen leaves, or laughing in the sunlight free.

Oh you who loved the song so well, Do you not hear the throstle’s note? Nor heed the lovesome light that fell As warm five thousand years ago, when Solomon, the wise king, wrote?

“Sweet,” wrote he. Yes, the light is sweet! And maddening sweet to walk in Spring: Yet is the pleasure incomplete-- How should the living understand the melodies that dead throats sing?

Thinker and poet clutch in vain The secret of a laughing rill, And Shakespeare’s self could never gain The message blown so mockingly by trumpet of a daffodil.

Dear lad, for you I will not call, Nor let a foolish dread be born. A thousand years is still too small To learn the secrets you must learn, ere you arise on Doomsday morn.

For you have set your ear to earth To list the growing of the flowers: And catch the strains of Death and Birth: And take the honey that is stored by all the flitting bee-like hours.

And you must put to memory The silver music of the stars That raineth down so silently, And all the mighty harmony scrolled on the sky in glittering bars.

The music that no man can make, The colours that he cannot see, These out of darkness you shall take And nourish up your growing soul with manna of their mystery.

And then when you awake again (And I have slept a little too), How we shall rise to pace anew An earth--where every dream is true, and nothing is unknown but pain.

DEFIANCE

I saw the orchards whitening To Easter in late Lent. Now struck of hell’s own lightning With branches broken and bent Behold the tall trees rent:-- Beaten with iron rain! And ever in my brain To every shell that’s sent Sounds back this small refrain:-- “You foolish shells, come kill me, Blacken my limbs with flame: I saw the English orchards (And so may die content) All white before I came!”

THE ORCHARDS, THE SEA, AND THE GUNS

Of sounds which haunt me, these Until I die Shall live. First the trees, Swaying and singing in the moonless night. (The wind being wild) And I A wakeful child, That lay and shivered with a strange delight.

Second--less sweet but thrilling as the first-- The midnight roar Of waves upon the shore Of Rossall dear: The rhythmic surge and burst (The gusty rain Flung on the pane!) I loved to hear.

And now another sound Wilder than wind or sea, When on the silent night I hear resound In mad delight The guns.... They bark the whole night through; And though I fear, Knowing what work they do, I somehow thrill to hear.

DYING IN SPRING

Lo, now do I behold Sunshine and greenery And Death together rolled-- Yet not in mockery.

Life was a faithful friend; Shall I make other of that dark brother Whom God doth send?

My dear companions--you That have been more to me Than grief or gaiety-- This sure is true: That we shall meet once more beyond Death’s door, Again be merry friends Where friendship never ends.

VICTORY

Whether you shall see it, or I, We cannot tell Now. And it doesn’t matter.

For ’twill come when Hell Is covered, and the batter Of guns fades:--Victory!

Remember then, you who have fellowed the dead-- Though the worst loudest last Thunder before the sun--

Remember--though the Hun And his brute power has passed-- There are more wars to be won!

Oh! while life’s Life, to all Eternity:-- Brothers, press on! Go On To VICTORY!

DEATH THE REVEALER

Within this dim five-windowed house of sense I watch through coloured glass The shapes that pass. Soon must I journey hence To meet the great winds of the outer world, And see (When God has turned the key) The true and terrible colours of His scheme Which now I dream.

F. W. H.

(_A Portrait_)

A thick-set, dark-haired, dreamy little man, Uncouth to see, Revolving ever this preposterous plan-- Within a web of words spread cunningly To tangle Life--no less, (Could he expect success!)

Of Life, he craves not much, except to watch. Being forced to act, He walks behind himself, as if to catch The motive:--an accessory to the fact, Faintly amused, it seems, Behind his dreams.

Yet hath he loved the vision of this world, And found it good: The Faith, the fight ’neath Freedom’s flag unfurled, The friends, the fun, the army-brotherhood. But faery-crazed or worse He twists it all to verse!

POETRY

The poems of Earth are lived, Not scratched with the dirty pen. They are writ in the sense of things And sung in the hearts of men.

Sensuous strains of Spring Pouring in silver flood, Summer’s golden delight Warming the waiting blood.

Colour, and scent, and sound Of all the changing year:-- These are the poems of Earth Which every man must hear.

Sorrow, and pain, and love, Joy, and fear, and regret:-- These are the burning poems That all our hearts beget.

These are the poems of Earth That every man must pen: Which you and I make up And straight forget again.

PROSE POEMS

1. HEAVEN

“Take me, then,” he said to the angel, “upon this great journey to Heaven.”

The angel touched his eyelids.

“Where, then, is Hell?” asked the man.

The spirit pointed out a bored-looking man quite near the throne.

“But he is in Heaven,” protested the mortal.

“Even so, but he does not know it,” replied the angel.

2. THE MOTH

“It is the brightness of God!” exclaimed the moth, beholding the candle.

“But it will scorch you worse than Hell’s fire,” warned a friendly insect.

“What matter that?” shouted the moth. “It is the brightness of God!”

Then it flew into the flame and was shrivelled.

3. THE ARTIST

“I am tired of failing!” said the Artist, and he ripped up the picture with his penknife.

“Now he will remember my love!” thought the woman, and she smiled. But when the Artist saw the smile on her face, he took his brushes and made a picture of it, and the love of the woman was forgotten.

4. THE WINDOW GLASS

Against the dark glass shone like a flower the mouth of his beloved. But in vain he pressed lips of fire upon the panes--in vain!

“Then, since Love may not melt,” cried he, “shatter, O Death!”

God broke the window with His fist.

5. IN THE FIELD OF TIME

In the field of Time, at the end of the path of daisies, grow flaming poppies, taking the eye more readily than the flowers of gold and white.

But a man, looking at some he had plucked to wear, discovered (formed by the inside shape and hue of the petals) a black cross at the bottom of every scarlet cup, and cast them from him.

6. BLUE GRASS

“Is not this the mountain of blue grass?” asked the stranger. “Why is the grass as green as in our common meadows?”

“It was never any other colour,” said the native.

“It looked blue from afar,” protested the traveller, “and I have journeyed a long and difficult way to find it.”

“You had better have stayed at home,” answered the native.

“No,” returned the stranger, with a sad smile, “I had better have come, but now I will go home. The grass there has become blue.”

7. THE POET

“What is that lovely thing you have in your heart? Why do you not sing of it?” asked the Muse.

“I have not yet lost it,” answered the Poet.

8. SORROW

The lean dagger had gone into the Poet’s heart.

Shuddering, he plucked it free, lest he should die. And then--by magic--it became in his hand a shining sword fit to smite down the sorrow of the world.

9. THE MIRACLE

Why has the Earth taken on a new significance?

Why is the smoking mist now white music, and the world’s architecture more wonderful than a fine cathedral?

It is something that has happened in your heart.

Perhaps (I do not know) you have learnt to hate yourself or to love a fellow-being.

10. FAITH

Why am I so many men? It is because you have not Faith.

What is Faith? Faith is a fire.

But how does a man come by it? Perhaps God gives it him.

11. TIME--THE HORSE

Whither does Time trot us? And is moonlight brightening the harness buckles as when children play beneath the rugs, guessing “Where are we?” and father drives home--home--beneath the stars?

12. THE REBUILDING OF REALITY

“Behold the sunshine, the green earth, the shining sea!” shouted my Eyes.

Said Heart: “Oh, I cannot; the realities I knew are gone! Death’s shadow is upon all this.”

“Well, it is yours to create realities anew,” smiled Death. “Hitherto (like the rest) you seem to have done it badly.”

13. THE TOKEN

Because of you I am insatiably curious about death.

Because of Him who imagined and made you I am able tranquilly to abide the time.

Shrivelled in His glory: scorched by His humour: because He has imagined and made you, I trust and am sure.

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED. BRUNSWICK ST., STAMFORD ST., S.E., AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:

Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.