Part 10

Everyone's voice was suddenly lifted; And beauty came like the setting sun: My heart was shaken with tears; and horror Drifted away ... O, but Everyone Was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will never be done.

EDWARD SHANKS

A NIGHT-PIECE

Come out and walk. The last few drops of light Drain silently out of the cloudy blue; The trees are full of the dark-stooping night, The fields are wet with dew.

All's quiet in the wood but, far away, Down the hillside and out across the plain, Moves, with long trail of white that marks its way, The softly panting train.

Come through the clearing. Hardly now we see The flowers, save dark or light against the grass, Or glimmering silver on a scented tree That trembles as we pass.

Hark now! So far, so far ... that distant song ... Move not the rustling grasses with your feet. The dusk is full of sounds, that all along The muttering boughs repeat.

So far, so faint, we lift our heads in doubt. Wind, or the blood that beats within our ears, Has feigned a dubious and delusive note, Such as a dreamer hears.

Again ... again! The faint sounds rise and fail. So far the enchanted tree, the song so low ... A drowsy thrush? A waking nightingale? Silence. We do not know.

THE GLOW-WORM

The pale road winds faintly upward into the dark skies, And beside it on the rough grass that the wind invisibly stirs, Sheltered by sharp-speared gorse and the berried junipers, Shining steadily with a green light, the glow-worm lies.

We regard it; and this hill and all the other hills That fall in folds to the river, very smooth and steep, And the hangers and brakes that the darkness thickly fills Fade like phantoms round the light and night is deep, so deep,--

That all the world is emptiness about the still flame And we are small shadows standing lost in the huge night. We gather up the glow-worm, stooping with dazzled sight, And carry it to the little enclosed garden whence we came,

And place it on the short grass. Then the shadowy flowers fade, The walls waver and melt and the houses dis-appear And the solid town trembles into insubstantial shade Round the light of the burning glow-worm, steady and clear.

THE HALT

_"Mark time in front! Rear fours cover! Company--halt!_ _Order arms! Stand at--ease! Stand easy."_ A sudden hush: And then the talk began with a mighty rush-- "You weren't ever in step--The sergeant.--It wasn't my fault-- Well, the Lord be praised at least for a ten minutes' halt." We sat on a gate and watched them easing and shifting; Out of the distance a faint, keen breath came drifting, From the sea behind the hills, and the hedges were salt.

Where do you halt now? Under what hedge do you lie? Where the tall poplars are fringing the white French roads? And smoke I have not seen discolours the foreign sky? Is the company resting there as we rested together Stamping its feet and readjusting its loads And looking with wary eyes at the drooping weather?

A HOLLOW ELM

What hast thou not withstood; Tempest-despising tree, Whose bleak and riven wood Gapes now so hollowly, What rains have beaten thee through many years, What snows from off thy branches dripped like tears?

Calmly thou standest now Upon thy sunny mound; The first spring breezes flow Past with sweet dizzy sound; Yet on thy pollard top the branches few Stand stiffly out, disdain to murmur too.

The children at thy foot Open new-lighted eyes, Where, on gnarled bark and root, The soft, warm sunshine lies-- Dost thou, upon thine ancient sides, resent The touch of youth, quick and impermanent?

These, at the beck of spring, Live in the moment still; Thy boughs unquivering, Remembering winter's chill, And many other winters past and gone, Are mocked, not cheated, by the transient sun.

Hast thou so much withstood, Tempest-despising tree, That now thy hollow wood Stiffens disdainfully Against the soft spring airs and soft spring rain, Knowing too well that winter comes again?

THE RETURN

I

Now into hearts long empty of the sun The morning comes again with golden light And all the shades of the half-dusk are done And all the crevices are suddenly bright. So gradually had love lain down to sleep, We knew it not; but when we saw his head Pillowed and sunken in a trance so deep We whispered shuddering that he was dead. Then you like Psyche took the light and leant Over the monster lying in his place, Daring, despairing, trembling as you bent ... But love raised up his new-awakening face And into our hearts long empty of the sun We felt the sky-distilled bright liquor run.

II

When love comes back that went in mist and cloud He comes triumphant in his pomp and power; Voices that muttered long are glad and loud To mark the sweetness of the sudden hour. How could we live so long in that half-light? That opiate shadow, where the deadened nerves So soon forget how hills and winds are bright, That drugged and sleepy dusk, that only serves With false shades to conceal the emptiness Of hearts whence love has stolen unawares, Where creeping doubts and dumb, dull sorrows press And weariness with blind eyes gapes and stares. This was our state, but now a happy song Rings through our inner sunlight all day long.

III

When that I lay in a mute agony, I nothing saw nor heard nor felt nor thought, The inner self, the quintessential me, In that blind hour beyond all sense was brought Hard against pain. I had no body, no mind, Nought but the point that suffers joy or loss, No eyes in sudden blackness to be blind, No brain for swift regrets to run across. But when you touched me, when your hot tears fell, The point that had been nothing else but pain Changed into rapture by a miracle, In which all raptures known before were vain. Thus loss which bared the utmost shivering nerve For joy's precursor in the heart did serve.

CLOUDS

Over this hill the high clouds float all day And trail their long, soft shadows on the grass, And now above the meadows make delay And now with regular, swift motion pass. Now comes a threatening drift from the south-west, In smoky colours drest, That spills far out upon the chequered plain Its burden of dark rain; Then hard behind a stately galleon Sails onward with its piled and carven towers Stiff sculptured like a heap of marble flowers, Rigid, unaltering, a miracle Of moulded surfaces, whereon the light Shines steadily, intolerably bright; Now on a livelier wind a wandering bell Of delicate vapour comes, invisibly hung, Like feathers from the seeding thistle flung, And saunters wantonly far out of sight. O God, who fill'st with shifting imagery The blue page of the sky, Thus writ'st thou also, with as vague a pen, In the immenser hearts of dreaming men.

THE ROCK POOL

This is the Sea. In these uneven walls A wave lies prisoned. Far and far away, Outward to ocean, as the slow tide falls, Her sisters, through the capes that hold the bay, Dancing in lovely liberty recede. But lovely in captivity she lies, Filled with soft colours, where the waving weed Moves gently, and discloses to our eyes Blurred shining veins of rock and lucent shells Under the light-shot water, and here repose Small quiet fish, and dimly-glowing bells Of sleeping sea-anemones that close Their tender fronds and will not now awake Till on these rocks the waves returning break.

THE SWIMMERS

The cove's a shining plate of blue and green, With darker belts between The trough and crest of the slow-rising swell, And the great rocks throw purple shadows down, Where transient sun-sparks wink and burst and drown And glimmering pebbles lie too deep to tell, Hidden or shining as the shadow wavers. And everywhere the restless sun-steeped air Trembles and quavers, As though it were More saturate with light than it could bear.

Now come the swimmers from slow-dripping caves, Where the shy fern creeps under the veined roof, And wading out meet with glad breast the waves. One holds aloof, Climbing alone the reef with shrinking feet, That scarce endure the jagged stones' dull beat Till on the edge he poises And flies to cleave the water, vanishing In wreaths of white, with echoing liquid noises, And swims beneath, a vague, distorted thing. Now all the other swimmers leave behind The crystal shallow and the foam-wet shore And sliding into deeper water find A living coolness in the lifting flood, And through their bodies leaps the sparkling blood, So that they feel the faint earth's drought no more. There now they float, heads raised above the green, White bodies cloudily seen, Farther and farther from the brazen rock, On which the hot air shakes, on which the tide Fruitlessly throws with gentle, soundless shock The cool and lagging wave. Out, out they go, And now upon a mirrored cloud they ride Or turning over, with soft strokes and slow, Slide on like shadows in a tranquil sky. Behind them, on the tall, parched cliff, the dry And dusty grasses grow In shallow ledges of the arid stone, Starving for coolness and the touch of rain. But, though to earth they must return again, Here come the soft sea-airs to meet them, blown Over the surface of the outer deep, Scarce moving, staying, falling, straying, gone, Light and delightful as the touch of sleep... One wakes and splashes round, And, as by magic, all the others wake From that sea-dream, and now with rippling sound Their rapid arms the enchanted silence break. And now again the crystal shallows take The gleaming bedies whose cool hour is done; They pause upon the beach, they pause and sigh Then vanish in the caverns one by one.

Soon the wet foot-marks on the stones are dry: The cove sleeps on beneath the unwavering sun.

THE STORM

We wake to hear the storm come down, Sudden on roof and pane; The thunder's loud and the hasty wind Hurries the beating rain.

The rain slackens, the wind blows gently, The gust grows gentle and stills, And the thunder, like a breaking stick, Stumbles about the hills.

The drops still hang on leaf and thorn, The downs stand up more green; The sun comes out again in power And the sky is washed and clean.

C. H. SORLEY

_Born 1895,_ _Killed in Action 1915._

GERMAN RAIN

The heat came down and sapped away my powers. The laden heat came down and drowned my brain, Till through the weight of overcoming hours felt the rain.

Then suddenly I saw what more to see I never thought: old things renewed, retrieved, The rain that fell in England fell on me, And I believed.

ALL THE HILLS AND VALES

All the hills and vales along Earth is bursting into song, And the singers are the chaps Who are going to die perhaps. O sing, marching men, Till the valleys ring again. Give your gladness to earth's keeping, So be glad, when you are sleeping.

Cast away regret and rue, Think what you are marching to. Little live, great pass. Jesus Christ and Barabbas Were found the same day. This died, that went his way. So sing with joyful breath. For why, you are going to death. Teeming earth will surely store All the gladness that you pour.

Earth that never doubts nor fears, Earth that knows of death, not tears, Earth that bore with joyful ease Hemlock for Socrates, Earth that blossomed and was glad 'Neath the cross that Christ had, Shall rejoice and blossom too When the bullet reaches you. Wherefore, men marching On the road to death, sing! Pour your gladness on earth's head, So be merry, so be dead.

From the hills and valleys earth Shouts back the sound of mirth, Tramp of feet and lilt of song Ringing all the road along. All the music of their going, Ringing swinging glad song-throwing, Earth will echo still, when foot Lies numb and voice mute. On, marching men, on To the gates of death with song. Sow your gladness for earth's reaping, So you may be glad, though sleeping. Strew your gladness on earth's bed, So be merry, so be dead.

JAMES STEPHENS

DEIRDRE

Do not let any woman read this verse; It is for men, and after them their sons And their sons' sons.

The time comes when our hearts sink utterly; When we remember Deirdre and her tale, And that her lips are dust.

Once she did tread the earth: men took her hand; They looked into her eyes and said their say, And she replied to them.

More than a thousand years it is since she Was beautiful: she trod the waving grass; She saw the clouds.

A thousand years! The grass is still the same, The clouds as lovely as they were that time When Deirdre was alive.

But there has never been a woman born Who was so beautiful, not one so beautiful Of all the women born.

Let all men go apart and mourn together; No man can ever love her; not a man Can ever be her lover.

No man can bend before her: no man say-- What could one say to her? There are no words That one could say to her!

Now she is but a story that is told Beside the fire! No man can ever be The friend of that poor queen.

THE GOAT PATHS

The crooked paths go every way Upon the hill--they wind about Through the heather in and out Of the quiet sunniness. And there the goats, day after day, Stray in sunny quietness, Cropping here and cropping there, As they pause and turn and pass, Now a bit of heather spray Now a mouthful of the grass.

In the deeper sunniness, In the place where nothing stirs, Quietly in quietness, In the quiet of the furze, For a time they come and lie Staring on the roving sky.

If you approach they run away, They leap and stare, away they bound, With a sudden angry sound, To the sunny quietude; Crouching down where nothing stirs In the silence of the furze, Crouching down again to brood In the sunny solitude.

If I were as wise as they I would stray apart and brood, I would beat a hidden way Through the quiet heather spray To a sunny solitude; And should you come I'd run away, I would make an angry sound, I would stare and turn and bound To the deeper quietude, To the place where nothing stirs In the silence of the furze.

In that airy quietness I would think as long as they; Through the quiet sunniness I would stray away to brood By a hidden beaten way In a sunny solitude.

I would think until I found Something I can never find, Something lying on the ground, In the bottom of my mind.

THE FIFTEEN ACRES

I cling and swing On a branch, or sing Through the cool, clear hush of Morning, O: Or fling my wing On the air, and bring To sleepier birds a warning, O: That the night's in flight, And the sun's in sight, And the dew is the grass adorning, O: And the green leaves swing As I sing, sing, sing, Up by the river, Down the dell, To the little wee nest, Where the big tree fell, So early in the morning, O.

I flit and twit In the sun for a bit When his light so bright is shining, O: Or sit and fit My plumes, or knit Straw plaits for the nest's nice lining, O And she with glee Shows unto me Underneath her wings reclining, O: And I sing that Peg Has an egg, egg, egg, Up by the oat-field, Round the mill Past the meadow Down the hill, So early in the morning, O.

I stoop and swoop On the air, or loop Through the trees, and then go soaring, O: To group with a troop On the gusty poop While the wind behind is roaring, O: I skim and swim By a cloud's red rim And up to the azure flooring, O: And my wide wings drip As I slip, slip, slip Down through the rain-drops, Back where Peg Broods in the nest On the little white egg So early in the morning, O.

EDWARD WYNDHAM TENNANT

_Born 1895._ _Killed in Action 1916._

HOME THOUGHTS IN LAVENTIE

Green gardens in Laventie! Soldiers only know the street Where the mud is churned and splashed about By battle-wending feet; And yet beside one stricken house there is a glimpse of grass, Look for it when you pass.

Beyond the Church whose pitted spire Seems balanced on a strand Of swaying stone and tottering brick Two roofless ruins stand, And here behind the wreckage where the _back_ wall should have been We found a garden green.

The grass was never trodden on, The little path of gravel Was overgrown with celandine, No other folk did travel Along its weedy surface, but the nimble-footed mouse Running from house to house.

So all among the vivid blades Of soft and tender grass We lay, nor heard the limber wheels That pass and ever pass, In noisy continuity until their stony rattle Seems in itself a battle.

At length we rose up from this ease Of tranquil happy mind, And searched the garden's little length A fresh pleasaunce to find; And there, some yellow daffodils and jasmine hanging high Did rest the tired eye.

The fairest and most fragrant Of the many sweets we found, Was a little bush of Daphne flower Upon a grassy mound, And so thick were the blossoms set and so divine the scent That we were well content.

Hungry for Spring I bent my head, The perfume fanned my face, And all my soul was dancing, In that lovely little place, Dancing with a measured step from wrecked and shattered towns Away......upon the Downs.

I saw green banks of daffodil, Slim poplars in the breeze, Great tan-brown hares in gusty March A-couching on the leas; And meadows with their glittering streams, and silver scurrying dace, Home--what a perfect place.

_Belgium, March,_ 1916.

EDWARD THOMAS

_Born 1877._ _Killed in Action 1017._

ASPENS

All day and night, save winter, every weather, Above the inn, the smithy, and the shop, The aspens at the cross-roads talk together Of rain, until their last leaves fall from the top.

Out of the blacksmith's cavern comes the ringing Of hammer, shoe, and anvil; out of the inn The clink, the hum, the roar, the random singing--The sounds that for these fifty years have been.

The whisper of the aspens is not drowned, And over lightless pane and footless road, Empty as sky, with every other sound Not ceasing, calls their ghosts from their abode.

A silent smithy, a silent inn, not fails In the bare moonlight or the thick-furred gloom, In tempest or the night of nightingales, To turn the cross-roads to a ghostly room.

And it would be the same were no house near. Over all sorts of weather, men, and times, A spens must shake their leaves and men may hear But need not listen, more than to my rhymes.

Whatever wind blows, while they and I have leaves We cannot other than an aspen be That ceaselessly, unreasonably grieves, Or so men think who like a different tree.

THE BROOK

Seated once by a brook, watching a child Chiefly that paddled, I was thus beguiled. Mellow the blackbird sang and sharp the thrush Not far off in the oak and hazel brush, Unseen. There was a scent like honeycomb From mugwort dull. And down upon the dome Of the stone the cart-horse kicks against so oft A butterfly alighted. From aloft He took the heat of the sun, and from below, On the hot stone he perched contented so, As if never a cart would pass again That way; as if I were the last of men And he the first of insects to have earth And sun together and to know their worth, I was divided between him and the gleam, The motion, and the voices, of the stream, The waters running frizzled over gravel, That never vanish and for ever travel. A grey flycatcher silent on a fence And I sat as if we had been there since The horseman and the horse lying beneath The fir-tree-covered barrow on the heath, The horseman and the horse with silver shoes, Galloped the downs last. All that I could lose I lost. And then the child's voice raised the dead. "No one's been here before" was what she said And what I felt, yet never should have found A word for, while I gathered sight and sound.

THE BRIDGE

I have come a long way to-day: On a strange bridge alone, Remembering friends, old friends, I rest, without smile or moan, As they remember me without smile or moan.

All are behind, the kind And the unkind too, no more To-night than a dream. The stream Runs softly yet drowns the Past, The dark-lit stream has drowned the Future and the Past.

No traveller has rest more blest Than this moment brief between Two lives, when the Night's first lights And shades hide what has never been, Things goodlier, lovelier, dearer, than will be or have been.

LIGHTS OUT

I have come to the borders of sleep, The unfathomable deep Forest where all must lose Their way, however straight, Or winding, soon or late; They cannot choose.

Many a road and track That, since the dawn's first crack, Up to the forest brink, Deceived the travellers Suddenly now blurs, And in they sink.

Here love ends, Despair, ambition ends, All pleasure and all trouble, Although most sweet or bitter, Here ends in sleep that is sweeter Than tasks most noble.

There is not any book Or face of dearest look That I would not turn from now To go into the unknown I must enter and leave alone I know not how.

The tall forest towers; Its cloudy foliage lowers Ahead, shelf above shelf; Its silence I hear and obey That I may lose my way And myself.

WORDS

Out of us all That make rhymes, Will you choose Sometimes-- As the winds use A crack in the wall Or a drain, Their joy or their pain To whistle through-- Choose me, You English words?