Chapter 3

When I lived in the village of youth The doors, all the doors, stood open; We went in and out of them laughing, Laughing and calling each other To shew each other our fairings, The new shawl, the new comb, the new fan, The new rose, the new lover.

Now I live in the town of age Where are no orchards, no gardens. Here, too, all the doors stand open, But no one goes in or goes out. We sit alone by the hearthstone Where memories lie like ashes Upon a hearth that is cold;

And they from the village of youth Run by our doorsteps laughing, Calling, to shew each other The new shawl, the new comb, the new fan, The new rose, the new lover.

Once we had all these things— We kept them from the old people, And now the young people have them And will not shew them to us— To us who are old and have nothing But the white, still, heaped-up ashes On the hearth where the fire went out A very long time ago.

II

I HAD a mistress; I loved her. She left me with memories bitter, Corroding, eating my heart As the acid eats into the steel Etching the portrait triumphant. Intolerable, indelible, Never to be effaced.

A wife was mine to my heart, Beautiful flower of my garden, Lily I worshipped by day, Scented rose of my nights. Now the night wind sighing Blows white rose petals only Over the bed where she sleeps Dreamless alone.

I had a son; I loved him. Mother of God, bear witness How all my manhood loved him As thy womanhood loved thy Son! When he was grown to his manhood He crucified my heart, And even as it hung bleeding He laughed with his bold companions, Mocked and turned away With laughter into the night.

Those three I loved and lost; But there was one who loved me With all the fire of her heart. Mine was the sacred altar Where she burnt her life for my worship. She was my slave, my servant; Mine all she had, all she was, All she could suffer, could be. That was the love of my life, I did not say, “She loves me”; I was so used to her love I never asked its name, Till, feeling the wind blow cold Where all the doors were left open, And seeing a fireless hearth And the garden deserted and weed-grown That once was full of flowers for me, I said, “What has changed? What is it That has made all the clocks stop?” Thus I asked and they answered: “It is thy mother who is dead.”

And now I am alone. My son, too, some day will stand Here, where I stand and weep. He too will weep, knowing too late The love that wrapped round his life. Dear God spare him this: Let him never know how I loved him, For he was always weak. He could not endure as I can. Mother, my dear, ask God To grant me this, for my son!

THE NEST

THAT was the skylark we heard Singing so high, The little quivering bird We saw, and the sky. The earth was drenched with sun, The sky was drenched with song; We lay in the grass and listened, Long and long and long.

I said, “What a spell it is Has made her rise To pour out her world of bliss In that world of skies!” You said, “What a spell must pass Between sky and plain, Since she finds in this world of grass Her nest again!”

THE OLD MAGIC

GRAY is the sea, and the skies are gray; They are ghosts of our blue, bright yesterday; And gray are the breasts of the gulls that scream Like tortured souls in an evil dream.

There is white on the wings of the sea and sky, And white are the gulls’ wings wheeling by, And white, like snow, is the pall that lies Where love weeps over his memories.

For the dead is dead, and its shroud is wrought Of good unfound and of wrong unsought; Yet from God’s good magic there ever springs The resurrection of holy things.

See—the gold and blue of our yesterday In the eyes and the hair of a child at play; And the spell of joy that our youth beguiled Is woven anew in the laugh of the child.

FAITH

A WALL Gray and tall, And a sky of gray, And a twilight cold; And that is all That my eyes behold. But I know that unseen, Beyond the wall, On a lawn of green White blossoms fall In the waning light; And beyond the lawn Curtains are drawn From windows bright. And within she moves with her gracious hands And the heart that loves and that understands, Waiting to succour poor souls in need, And to bind with her blessing the hearts that bleed.

I know it all, though I cannot see; But the tired-out tramp, Dirty and ill, In the evening’s damp, In the Spring’s clean chill, Knows not that there Is the heart to care For such as I and for such as he. He slouches along, and sees alone The gray of the sky and the gray of the stone.

Lord, when my eyes see nothing but grey In all Thy world that is now so green, I will bethink me of this spring day And the house of welcome, known yet unseen; The wall that conceals And the faith that reveals.

THE DEATH OF AGNES

NOW that the sunlight dies in my eyes, And the moonlight grows in my hair, I who was never very wise, Never was very fair, Virgin and martyr all my life, What has life left to give Me—who was never mother nor wife, Never got leave to live?

Nothing of life could I clasp or claim, Nothing could steal or save. So when you come to carve my name, Give me life in my grave. To keep me warm when I sleep alone A lie is little to give; Call me “Magdalen” on my stone, Though I died and did not live.

IN TROUBLE

IT’S all for nothing: I’ve lost him now. I suppose it had to be; But oh, I never thought it of him, Nor he never thought it of me. And all for a kiss on your evening out, And a field where the grass was down . . . And he ’as gone to God-knows-where, And I may go on the town.

The worst of all was the thing he said The night that he went away; He said he’d ’a married me right enough If I hadn’t ’a been so gay. Me—gay! When I’d cried, and I’d asked him not, But he said he loved me so; An’ whatever he wanted seemed right to me . . . An’ how was a girl to know?

Well, the river is deep, and drowned folk sleep sound, An’ it might be the best to do; But when he made me a light-o’-love He made me a mother too. I’ve had enough sin to last my time, If ’twas sin as I got it by, But it ain’t no sin to stand by his kid And work for it till I die.

But oh! the long days and the death-long nights When I feel it move and turn, And cry alone in my single bed And count what a girl can earn To buy the baby the bits of things _He_ ought to ha’ bought, by rights; And wonder whether he thinks of Us . . . And if he sleeps sound o’ nights.

GRATITUDE

I FOUND a starving cat in the street: It cried for food and a place by the fire. I carried it home, and I strove to meet The claims of its desire.

And since its desire was a little fish, A little hay and a little milk, I gave it cream in a silver dish And a basket lined with silk.

And when we came to the grateful pause When it should have fawned on the hand that fed, It turned to a devil all teeth and claws, Scratched me and bit me and fled.

To pay for the fish and the milk and the hay With a purr had been an easy task: But its hate and my blood were required to pay For the gifts that it did not ask.

AT THE LAST

WHERE are you—you whose loving breath Alone can stay my soul from death? The world’s so wide, I seek it through, Yet—dare I dream to win to you? Perhaps your dear desirèd feet Pass me in this grey muddy street. Your face, it may be, has its shrine In that dull house that’s next to mine. But I believe, O Life, O Fate, That when I call on Death and wait One moment at the unclosing gate I shall turn back for one last gaze Along the trampled, sordid ways, And in the sunset see at last, Just as the barred gate holds me fast, Your face, your face, too late.

FEAR

IF you were here, Hopes, dreams, ambitions, faith would disappear, Drowned in your eyes; and I should touch your hand, Forgetting all that now I understand. For you confuse my life with memories Of unrememberable ecstasies Which were, and are not, and can never be; . . . Ah! keep the whole earth between you and me.

THE DAY OF JUDGMENT

WHEN the bearing and doing are over, And no more is to do or bear, God will see us and judge us The kind of men we were; And our sins, so ugly and heavy, We shall drag them into His sight, And throw them down at the foot of the throne, Foul on the steps of light.

We shall not be shamed or frightened, Though the angels are all at hand, For He will look at our burden, And He will understand. He will turn to the little angels, Agog to hear and obey, And point to the festering sin-loads With, “Take that rubbish away!”

Then the steps will be cleared of the burdens That we threw down at His feet; And we shall be washed in the tears of Christ, And our tears bathe His feet. And the harvest of all our sinning That moment’s shame will reap— When we look in the eyes that love us And know we have made them weep.

A FAREWELL

GOOD-BYE, good-bye; it is not hard to part! You have my heart—the heart that leaps to hear Your name called by an echo in a dream; You have my soul that, like an untroubled stream, Reflects your soul that leans so dear, so near— Your heartbeats set the rhythm for my heart.

What more could Life give if we gave her leave To give, and Life should give us leave to take? Only each other’s arms, each other’s eyes, Each other’s lips, the clinging secrecies That are but as the written words to make Records of what the heart and soul achieve.

This, only this we yield, my love, my friend, To Fate’s implacable eyes and withering breath. We still are yours and mine, though, by Time’s theft, My arms are empty and your arms bereft. It is not hard to part—not harder than Death; And each of us must face Death in the end!

IN HOSPITAL

UNDER the shadow of a hawthorn brake, Where bluebells draw the sky down to the wood, Where, ’mid brown leaves, the primroses awake And hidden violets smell of solitude; Beneath green leaves bright-fluttered by the wing Of fleeting, beautiful, immortal Spring, I should have said, “I love you,” and your eyes Have said, “I, too . . . ” The gods saw otherwise.

For this is winter, and the London streets Are full of soldiers from that far, fierce fray Where life knows death, and where poor glory meets Full-face with shame, and weeps and turns away. And in the broken, trampled foreign wood Is horror, and the terrible scent of blood, And love shines tremulous, like a drowning star, Under the shadow of the wings of war.

1916.

PRAYER IN TIME OF WAR

NOW Death is near, and very near, In this wild whirl of horror and fear, When round the vessel of our State Roll the great mountain waves of hate. God! We have but one prayer to-day— O Father, teach us how to pray.

For prayer is strong, and very strong; But we have turned from Thee so long To follow gods that have no power Save in the safe and sordid hour, That to Thy feet we have lost the way . . . O Father, teach us how to pray.

We have done ill, and very ill, Set up our will against Thy will. That our soft lives might gorge, full-fed, We stole our brothers’ daily bread. Lord, we are sorry we went astray— O Father, teach us how to pray.

Now in this hour of desperate strife For England’s life, her very life, Teach us to pray that life may be A new life, beautiful to Thee, And in Thy hands that life to lay. O Father, teach us how to pray.

1915.

AT PARTING

GO, since you must, but, Dearest, know That, Honour having bid you go, Your honour, if your life be spent, Shall have a costly monument.

This heart, that fire and roses is Beneath the magic of your kiss, Shall turn to marble if you die And be your deathless effigy.

1914.

INVOCATION

THE Spirit of Darkness, the Prince of the Power of the Air, The terror that walketh by night, and the horror by day, The legions of Evil, alert and awake and aware, Press round him each hour; and I pray here alone, far away.

God! call up Thy legions to fight on the side of my love, Let the seats of the mighty be cast down before him, O Lord, Send strong wings of angels to shield him beneath and above, Let glorious Michael unsheath his implacable sword.

Let the whole host of Heaven take part with my dear in his fight, That the armies of Hell may be scattered like chaff in the blast, And the trumpets of Heaven blow fair for the triumph of Right. Inspire him, protect him, and bring him home victor at last.

But if—ah, dear God, give me strength to withhold nothing now!— If the life of my life be required for Thy splendid design, Give his country the laurels, though cold and uncrowned be his brow . . . Thou gavest Thy Son for the world, and shall _I_ not give mine?

1914.

TO HER: IN TIME OF WAR

ONCE I made for you songs, Rondels, triolets, sonnets; Verse that my love deemed due, Verse that your love found fair. Now the wide wings of war Hang, like a hawk’s, over England, Shadowing meadows and groves; And the birds and the lovers are mute.

Yet there’s a thing to say Before I go into battle, Not now a poet’s word But a man’s word to his mate: Dear, if I come back never, Be it your pride that we gave The hope of our hearts, each other, For the sake of the Hope of the World.

1915.

THE FIELDS OF FLANDERS

LAST year the fields were all glad and gay With silver daisies and silver may; There were kingcups gold by the river’s edge And primrose stars under every hedge.

This year the fields are trampled and brown, The hedges are broken and beaten down, And where the primroses used to grow Are little black crosses set in a row.

And the flower of hopes, and the flowers of dreams, The noble, fruitful, beautiful schemes, The tree of life with its fruit and bud, Are trampled down in the mud and the blood.

The changing seasons will bring again The magic of Spring to our wood and plain: Though the Spring be so green as never was seen The crosses will still be black in the green.

The God of battles shall judge the foe Who trampled our country and laid her low . . . God! hold our hands on the reckoning day, Lest all we owe them we should repay.

1915.

SPRING IN WAR-TIME

NOW the sprinkled blackthorn snow Lies along the lovers’ lane Where last year we used to go— Where we shall not go again.

In the hedge the buds are new, By our wood the violets peer— Just like last year’s violets, too, But they have no scent this year.

Every bird has heart to sing Of its nest, warmed by its breast; We had heart to sing last spring, But we never built our nest.

Presently red roses blown Will make all the garden gay . . . Not yet have the daisies grown On your clay.

1916.

THE MOTHER’S PRAYER

THIS was my little son Who leapt and laughed on my knee: Body we made with love, Soul made with love by Thee. This was the mystery In which I worshipped Thy grace; This was the sign to me— The unveiling of Thy face . . . This, that lies under Thy skies Naked as on that day When the floor of heaven gave way And the glory of God shone through, When the world was made new And Thy word was made flesh for me . . . He lies there, bare to Thy skies, O Lord God, see!

Body that was in mine A secret, sacred spell, Little hands I have kissed Trampled by beasts in Hell . . . Growing beauty and grace . . . Oh, head that lay on my bosom . . . Broken, battered, shattered . . . Body that grew like a blossom! All that was promised me On my life’s royal day. Every promise broken— Only a ghost, and clay!

O God, I kneel at Thy feet; I lay my hands in Thine: Thou gavest Thy Son for the world, And shall _I_ not give mine? Only—O God, have pity! All my defences are down: God, I accept the Cross, Let _him_ have the Crown!

By all that my love has borne, By all that all mothers bear, By the infinite patient anguish, By the never-ceasing prayer, By the thoughts that cut like a living knife, By the tears that are never dry, Take what he died to win You— God, take Your victory!

We have watched on till the light burned low, And watched the dawn awake; We have lived hardly and hardly fared For our sons’ sake. All that was good in Thy earth, All that taught us of Heaven, All that we had in the world We have given. We pray with empty hands And hearts that are stiff with pain. O God! O God! O God! Let the sacrifice not be vain. This is his blood, Lord, see! His blood that was shed for Thee; Thy banner is dyed in that red tide Lord, take Thy victory!

God! give Thine angels power To fight as he fought, To scatter the hosts of evil, To bring their boastings to naught— Gabriel with trumpet of battle . . . Michael, who wields Thy sword . . . Breathe Thou Thy spirit upon them, Put forth Thy strength, O Lord. See, Lord, this is his body, Broken for Thee, for Thee . . . My son, my little son, Who leapt and laughed on my knee.

“INASMUCH AS YE DID IT NOT . . . ”

IF Jesus came to London, Came to London to-day, He would not go to the West End, He would come down our way; He’d talk with the children dancing To the organ out in the street, And say he was their big Brother, And give them something to eat.

He wouldn’t go to the mansions Where the charitable live; He’d come to the tenement houses Where we ain’t got nothing to give. He’d come so kind and so homely, And treat us to beer and bread, And tell us how we ought to behave; And we’d try to mind what He said.

In the warm bright West End churches They sing and preach and pray, They call us “Beloved brethren,” But they do not act that way. And when He came to the church door He’d call out loud and free, “You stop that preaching and praying And show what you’ve done for Me.”

Then they’d say, “O Lord, we have given To the poor both blankets and tracts, And we’ve tried to make them sober, And we’ve tried to teach them facts. But they will sneak round to the drink-shop, And pawn the blankets for beer, And we find them very ungrateful, But still we persevere.”

Then He would say, “I told you The time I was here before, That you were all of you brothers, All you that I suffered for. I won’t go into your churches, I’ll stop in the sun outside. You bring out the men your brothers, The men for whom I died!”

Out of our beastly lodgings, From arches and doorways about, They’d have to do as He told them, They’d have to call us out. Millions and millions and millions, Thick and crawling like flies, We should creep out to the sunshine And not be afraid of His eyes.

He’d see what God’s image looks like When men have dealt with the same, Wrinkled with work that is never done, Swollen and dirty with shame. He’d see on the children’s forehead The branded gutter-sign That marks the girls to be harlots, That dooms the boys to be swine.

Then He’d say, “What’s the good of churches When these have nowhere to sleep? And how can I hear you praying When they are cursing so deep? I gave My Blood and My Body That they might have bread and wine, And you have taken your share and theirs Of these good gifts of mine!”

Then some of the rich would be sorry, And all would be very scared, And they’d say, “But we never knew, Lord!” And He’d say, “You never cared!” And some would be sick and shameful Because they’d know that they knew, And the best would say, “We were wrong, Lord. Now tell us what to do!”

I think He’d be sitting, likely, For someone ’ud bring Him a chair, With a common kid cuddled up on His knee And the common sun on His hair; And they’d be standing before Him, And He’d say, “You know that you knew. Why haven’t you worked for your brothers The same as I worked for you?

“For since you’re all of you brothers It’s clear as God’s blessed sun That each must work for the others, Not thousands work for one. And the ones that have lived bone-idle If they want Me to hear them pray, Let them go and work for their livings The only honest way!

“I’ve got nothing new to tell you, You know what I always said— But you’ve built their bones into churches And stolen their wine and bread; You with My Name on your foreheads, Liar, and traitor, and knave, You have lived by the death of your brothers, These whom I died to save!”

I wish He would come and say it; Perhaps they’d believe it then, And work like men for their livings And let us work like men. Brothers? They don’t believe it, The lie on their lips is red. They’ll never believe till He comes again, Or till we rise from the dead!

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_Printed by the Anchor Press_, _Ltd._, _Tiptree_, _Essex_, _England_.