Part 2

But here the shells rush over, We lie in evil holes, We burrow into darkness Like rabbits or like moles, Men that have breathed the Severn air, Men that have eyes and souls.

To-day the grass runs over With ripples like the sea, And men stand up and drink air Easy and sweet and free; But days like this are half a curse, And Beauty troubles me.

The shadows under orchards there Must be as clear and black-- At Minsterworth, at Framilode-- As though we had all come back; Were out at making hay or tedding, Piling the yellow stack.

The gardens grow as freshly On Cotswold’s green and white; The grey-stone cottage colours Are lovely to the sight, As we were glad for dreams there, Slept deep at home at night;

While here we die a dozen deaths A score of times a day; Trying to keep up heart and not To give ourselves away. “Two years longer,” “Peace to-morrow,” “Some time yet,” they say!

TO F. W. H.

Ink black and lustreless may hold A passion full of living fire: Spring’s green the Autumn does enfold-- Things precious hide their bright in the mire.

And a whole county’s lovely pride In one small book I found that made More real the pictured Severn side Than crash and shock of cannonade.

Beneath, more strong than that dread noise The talk I heard of trees and men, The still low-murmuring Earth-voice ... God send us dreams in peace again.

THE IMMORTAL HOUR

(TO WINNIE)

I have forgotten where the pleasure lay In resting idle in the summer weather, Waiting on Beauty’s power my spirit to sway, Since Life has taken me and flung me hither;

Here where gray day to day goes dully on, So evenly, so grayly that the heart Not notices nor cares that Time is gone That might be jewelled bright and set apart.

And yet, for all this weight, there stirs in me Such music of Joy when some perceivéd flower Breaks irresistible this crust, this lethargy, I burn and hunger for that immortal hour

When Peace shall bring me first to my own home, To my own hills; I’ll climb and vision afar Great cloud-fleets line on line up Severn come, Where winds of Joy shall cleanse the stain of war.

TO HIS LOVE

He’s gone, and all our plans Are useless indeed. We’ll walk no more on Cotswold Where the sheep feed Quietly and take no heed.

His body that was so quick Is not as you Knew it, on Severn river Under the blue Driving our small boat through.

You would not know him now ... But still he died Nobly, so cover him over With violets of pride Purple from Severn side.

Cover him, cover him soon! And with thick-set Masses of memoried flowers-- Hide that red wet Thing I must somehow forget.

MIGRANTS

(TO MRS. TAYLOR)

No colour yet appears On trees still summer fine, The hill has brown sheaves yet, Bare earth is hard and set; But autumn sends a sign In this as in other years.

For birds that flew alone And scattered sought their food Gather in whirring bands;-- Starlings, about the lands Spring cherished, summer made good, Dark bird-clouds soon to be gone.

But above that windy sound A deeper note of fear All daylight without cease Troubles the country peace; War birds, high in the air, Airplanes shadow the ground.

Seawards to Africa Starlings with joy shall turn, War birds to skies of strife, Where Death is ever at Life; High in mid-air may burn Great things that trouble day.

Their time is perilous, Governed by Fate obscure; But when our April comes About the thatch-eaved homes,-- Cleaving sweet air, the sure Starlings shall come to us.

OLD MARTINMAS EVE

The moon, one tree, one star, Still meadows far, Enwreathed and scarfed by phantom lines of white. November’s night Of all her nights, I thought, and turned to see Again that moon and star-supporting tree. If some most quiet tune had spoken then; Some silver thread of sound; a core within That sea-deep silentness, I had not known Ever such joy in peace, but sound was none-- Nor should be till birds roused to find the dawn.

AFTER MUSIC

Why, I am on fire now, and tremulous With sense of Beauty long denied; the first Opening of floodgate to the glorious burst Of Freedom from the Fate that limits us To work in darkness pining for the light, Thirsting for sweet untainted draughts of air, Clouds sunset coloured, Music ... O Music’s bare White heat of silver passion fiercely bright! While sweating at the foul task, we can taste No Joy that’s clean, no Love but something lets It from its power; the wisest soul forgets What’s beautiful, or delicate, or chaste. Orpheus drew me (as once his bride) from Hell. If wisely, her or me, the Gods can tell.

THE TARGET

I shot him, and it had to be One of us! ’Twas him or me. “Couldn’t be helped,” and none can blame Me, for you would do the same.

My mother, she can’t sleep for fear Of what might be a-happening here To me. Perhaps it might be best To die, and set her fears at rest.

For worst is worst, and worry’s done. Perhaps he was the only son ... Yet God keeps still, and does not say A word of guidance any way.

Well, if they get me, first I’ll find That boy, and tell him all my mind, And see who felt the bullet worst, And ask his pardon, if I durst.

All’s a tangle. Here’s my job. A man might rave, or shout, or sob; And God He takes no sort of heed. This is a bloody mess indeed.

TWIGWORTH VICARAGE

(TO A. H. C.)

Wakened by birds and sun, laughter of the wind, A man might see all heart’s desire by raising His pillowed sleepy head (still apt for lazing And drowsy thought)--but then a green most kind Waved welcome, and the rifted sky behind Showed blue, whereon cloud-ships full-sailed went racing, Man to delight and set his heart on praising The Maker of all things, bountiful-hearted, kind.

May Hill, that half-revealéd tree-clad thing, Maisemore’s delightful ridge, where Severn flowing Nourished a wealth of lovely wild things blowing Sweet as the air--Wainlodes and Ashleworth To northward showed, a land where a great king Might sit to receive homage from the whole earth.

_HOSPITAL PICTURES_

(TO THE NURSES OF WARD 24, BANGOUR WAR HOSPITAL, NEAR EDINBURGH)

1. LADIES OF CHARITY

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.

2. DUST

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.

3. “ABERDONIAN”

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.

4. COMPANION--NORTH-EAST DUGOUT

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....

5. THE MINER

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.

6. UPSTAIRS PIANO

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.

HIDDEN TALES

The proud and sturdy horses Gather their willing forces, Unswerving make their courses Over the brown Earth that was mowing meadow A month agone, where shadow And light in the tall grasses Quivered and was gone.

They spoil the nest of plover And lark, turn up, uncover The bones of many a lover Unfamed in tales; Arrows, old flints of hammers, The rooks with hungry clamours Hover around and settle Seeking full meals.

Who knows what splendid story Lies here, what hidden glory Of brave defeat or victory This earth might show. None cares; the surging horses Gather untiring forces The keen-eyed farmer after Guiding the plough.

RECOMPENSE

(TO THE MEN OF THE 2/5 GLOUCESTER REGIMENT)

I’d not have missed one single scrap of pain That brought me to such friends, and them to me; And precious is the smallest agony, The greatest, willingly to bear again-- Cruel frost, night vigils, death so often ta’en By Golgothas untold from Somme to Sea. Duty’s a grey thing; Friendship valorously Rides high above all Fortune without stain.

Their eyes were stars within the blackest night Of Evil’s trial. Never mariner Did trust so in the ever-fixéd star As I in those. And so their laughter sounded-- Trumpets of Victory glittering in sunlight; Though Hell’s power ringed them in, and night surrounded.

THE TRYST

(TO W. M. C.)

In curtain of the hazel wood, From sunset to the clear-of-star, An hour or more I feared, but stood-- My lover’s road was far.

Until within the ferny brake Stirred patter feet and silver talk That set all horror wide awake-- I fear the fairy folk ...

That bind with chains and change a maid From happy smiling to a thing Better in ground unhallowed laid Where holy bells not ring.

And whether late he came or soon I know not, through a rush of air Along the white road under the moon I sped, till the golden square

Showed of the blind lamplighted; then, My hand on heart, I slackened, stood ... Though Robin be the man of men, I’ll walk no more that wood.

THE PLAIN

The plain’s a waste of evil mire, And dead of colour, sodden-grey, The trees are ruined, crumbled the spire That once made glad the innocent day.

The host of flowers are buried deep With friends of mine who held them dear; Poor shattered loveliness asleep, Dreaming of April’s covering there.

Oh, if the Bringer of Spring does care For Duty valorously done, Then what sweet breath shall scent the air! What colour-blaze outbrave the sun!

RUMOURS OF WARS

(TO MRS. VOYNICH)

On Sussex hills to-day Women stand and hear The guns at work alway, Horribly, terribly clear.

The doors shake, on the wall The kitchen vessels move, The brave heart not at all May soothe its tortured love,

Nor hide from truth, nor find Comfort in lies. No prayer May calm. All’s naught. The mind Waits on the throbbing air.

The frighted day grows dark. None dares to speak. The gloom Makes bright and brighter the spark Of fire in the still room.

A crazy door shakes free.... “Dear God!” They stand, they stare ... A shape eyes cannot see Troubles blank darkness there.

She knows, and must go pray Numb-hearted by the bed That was his own alway ... The throbbing hurts her head.

“ON REST”

(TO THE MEN OF THE 2/5 GLOUCESTER REGIMENT)

It’s a King’s life, a life fit for a King! To lie safe sheltered in some old hay-loft Night long, on golden straw, and warm and soft, Unroused; to hear through dreams dawn’s thrushes sing “Revally”--drowse again; then wake to find The bright sun through the broken tiles thick-streaming. “Revally” real: and there’s an end to dreaming. “Up, Boys, and Out!” Then O what green, what still Peace in the orchard, deep and sweet and kind, Shattered abruptly--splashing water, shout On shout of sport, and cookhouse vessels banging, Dixie against dixie musically clanging.-- The farmer’s wife, searching for eggs, ’midst all Dear farmhouse cries. A stroll: and then “Breakfast’s up.” Porridge and bacon! Tea out of a real cup (Borrowed). First day on Rest, a Festival Of mirth, laughter in safety, a still air. “No whizzbangs,” “crumps” to fear, nothing to mind, Danger and the thick brown mud behind, An end to wiring, digging, end to care. Now wonders begin, Sergeants with the crowd Mix; Corporals, Lance-Corporals, little proud, Authority forgotten, all goes well In this our Commonwealth, with tales to tell, Smokes to exchange, letters of price to read, Letters of friends more sweet than daily bread. The Sergeant-major sheathes his claws and lies Smoking at length, content deep in his eyes. Officers like brothers chaff and smile-- Salutes forgotten, etiquette the while, Comrades and brothers all, one friendly band. Now through the orchard (sun-dried of dewfall) in And out the trees the noisy sports begin. He that is proud of body runs, leaps, turns Somersaults, hand-turns; the licensed jester flings Javelins of blunt wit may bruise not pierce; Ragtimes and any scrap of nonsense sings. All’s equal now. It’s Rest, none cares, none escapes The hurtless battering of those kindly japes. Noon comes, the estaminets open welcome doors, Men drift along the roads in three and fours, Enter those cool-paven rooms, and sit Waiting; many there are to serve, Madame Forces her way with glasses, all ignores The impatient clamour of that thirsty jam, The outcries, catcalls, queries, doubtful wit, Alike. Newspapers come, “Journal, m’sieur?” “What’s the news?” “Anything fresh, boy?” “Tell us what’s new.” Dinner, perhaps a snooze, perhaps a stroll. Tea, letters (most like), rations to divide (Third of a loaf, half, if luck’s our way). No work, no work, no work! A lovely day! Down the main street men loiter side by side. So day goes on blue-domed till the west’s afire With the sun just sunken, though we cannot see, Hidden in green, the fall of majesty. Our hearts are lifted up, fierce with desire But once again to see the ricks, the farms, Blue roads, still trees of home in the rich glow; Life’s pageant fading slower and more slow Till Peace folds all things in with tender arms. The last stroll in the orchard ends, the last Candles are lit in bivvy and barn and cart, Where comrades talking lie, comfort at heart, Gladder for danger shared in the hard past, The stars grow bright ’gainst Heaven’s still-deepening blue, Lights in the orchard die. “I wonder how Mother is keeping: she must be sleepy now As we, yet may be wondering all night through.”

DICKY

(TO HIS MEMORY)

They found him when the day Was yet but gloom; Six feet of scarréd clay Was ample room And wide enough domain for all desires For him, whose glowing eyes Made mock at lethargies, Were not a moment still;-- Can Death, all slayer, kill The fervent source of those exultant fires? Nay, not so; Somewhere that glow And starry shine so clear astonishes yet The wondering spirits as they come and go. Eyes that nor they nor we shall ever forget.

OMIECOURT.

THE DAY OF VICTORY

(TO MY CITY)

The dull dispiriting November weather Hung like a blight on town and tower and tree, Hardly was Beauty anywhere to see Save--how fine rain (together With spare last leaves of creepers once showed wet As it were, with blood of some high-making passion,) Drifted slow and slow.... But steadily aglow The City was, beneath its grey, and set Strong-mooded above the day’s inclemency.

Flaunting from houses, over the rejoicing crowd, Flags waved; that told how nation against nation Should war no more, their wounds tending awhile:-- The sullen vanquished; Victors with heads bowed. And still the bells from the square towers pealed Victory, The whole time cried Victory, Victory flew Banners invisible argent; Music intangible A glory of spirit wandered the wide air through. All knew it, nothing mean of fire or common Ran in men’s minds; none so poor but knew Some touch of sacred wonder, noble wonder,-- Thought’s surface moving under; Life’s texture coarse transfiguring through and through.

Joking, friendly-quarrelling, holiday-making, Eddying hither, thither, without stay That concourse went, squibs, crackers, squibbing, cracking-- Laughter gay All common-jovial noises sounded, bugles triumphing masterful, strident, clear above all, Hail fellow, cat-call ... Yet one discerned A new spirit learnt of pain, some great Acceptance out of hard endurance learned And truly; wrested bare of hand from Fate. The soldier from his body slips the pack, Staggers, relaxes, crouches, then lies back, Glad for the end of torment. Here was more.

A sense of consummation undeserved, Desire fulfilled beyond dreams, completion Humbly accepted,--a proud and grateful nation Took the reward of purpose had not swerved, But steadily before Saw out, with equal mind, through alternation Of hope and doubt--a four-year purge of fire Changing with sore Travail the flawed spirit, cleansing desire.

And glad was I: Glad--who had seen By Somme and Ancre too many comrades lie. It was as if the Woman’s spirit moved That multitude, never of Man that pays So lightly for the treasure of his days-- Of some woman that too greatly had beloved Yet, willing, half her care of life foregone; Best half of being losing with her son, Beloved, beautiful, born-of-agony One....

The dull skies wept still. Drooped suddenly Flags all. No triumph there. Belgium, the Stars and Stripes, Gaul, Italy, Britain, assured Mistress, Queen of the Sea, Forlorn colours showed; rags glory-bare. Night came, starless, to blur all things over That strange assort of Life; Sister, and lover, Brother, child, wife, Parent--each with his thought, careless or passioned, Of those who gave their frames of flesh to cover From spoil their land and folk, desperately fashioned Fate stubborn to their will.

Rain fell, miserably, miserably, and still The strange crowd clamoured till late, eddied, clamoured, Mixed, mused, drifted.... The Day of Victory.

PASSIONATE EARTH

(TO J. W. H.)

Where the new-turned ploughland runs to clean Edges of sudden grass-land, lovely, green-- Music, music clings, music exhales, And inmost fragrance of a thousand tales. There the heart lifts, the soul takes flight to sing High at Heaven-gate; but loth for entering Lest there such brown and green it never find; Nor feel the sting Of such a beauty left so far behind.

THE POPLAR

(TO MICKY)

A tall slim poplar That dances in A hidden corner Of the old garden, What is it in you Makes communion With this wind of Autumn, The clouds, the sun?

You must be lonely Amidst round trees With their matron-figures And stubborn knees, Casting hard glances Of keen despite On the lone girl that dances Silvery white.

But you are dearer To sky and earth Than lime-trees, plane-trees Of meaner birth. Your sweet shy beauty Dearer to us Than tree-folk, worthy, Censorious.

DOWN COMMERCIAL ROAD (GLOUCESTER)

(TO MY MOTHER)