Part 3

When I was small and packed with tales of desert islands far My mother took me walking in a grey ugly street, But there the sea-wind met us with a jolly smell of tar, A sailorman went past to town with slow rolling gait; And Gloucester she’s famous in story.

The trees and shining sky of June were good enough to see, Better than books or any tales the sailormen might tell-- But tops’le spars against the blue made fairyland for me; The snorting tug made surges like the huge Atlantic swell. And Gloucester she’s famous in story.

Then thought I, how much better to sail the open seas Than sit in school at spelling-books or sums of grocers’ wares. And I’d have knelt for pity at any captain’s knees To go see the banyan tree or white Arctic bears. And Gloucester she’s famous in story.

O Gloucester men about the world that dare the seas to-day, Remember little boys at school a-studying their best To hide somehow from Mother, and get clear away To where the flag of England flies prouder than the rest. And Gloucester she’s famous in story.

FROM OMIECOURT

O small dear things for which we fight-- Red roofs, ricks crowned with early gold, Orchards that hedges thick enfold-- O visit us in dreams to-night!

Who watch the stars through broken walls And ragged roofs, that you may be Still kept our own and proudly free While Severn from the Welsh height falls.

LE COQ FRANÇAIS

(TO RONALD)

After the biting cold of the outer night It seemed--(“Le Coq Français”)--a palace of light, And its low roof black-timbered was most fine After the iron and sandbags of the line. Easy it was to be happy there! Madame, Frying a savoury mess of eggs and ham, Talking the while: of the War, of the crops, her son Who should see to them, and would, when the War was done. Of battalions who had passed there, happy as we To find a house so clean, such courtesy Simple, sincere; after vigils of frost The place seemed the seventh Heaven of comfort; lost In miraculous strange peace and warmth we’d sit Till the prowling police hunted us out of it-- Away from café noir, café au lait, vin blanc, Vin rouge, citron, all that does belong To the kindly shelter of old estaminets, Nooked and cornered, with mirth of firelight ablaze-- Herded us into billets; where candles must show Little enough comfort after the steady glow Of that wonderful fireshine. We must huddle us close In blankets, hiding all but the crimson nose, To think awhile of home, if the frost would let Thought flow at all; then sleep, sleep to forget All but home and old rambles, lovely days Of maiden April, glamorous September haze, All darling things of life, the sweet of desire-- Castles of Spain in the deep heart of the fire.

THE FISHERMAN OF NEWNHAM

(TO MY FATHER)

When I was a boy at Newnham, For every tide that ran Swift on its way to Bollo, I wished I were a man To sail out and discover Where such a tide began.

But when my strength came on me ’Tis I must earn my bread: My Father set me fishing By Frampton Hock, instead Of wandering to the ocean-- Wherever Severn led.

And now I’ve come to manhood, Too many cares have I To think of gallivanting (A wife and child forbye). So I must wonder ever Until time comes to die.

Then I shall question Peter Upon the heavenly floor, What makes the tide in rivers-- How comes the Severn bore, And all things he will tell me I never knew before.

THE LOCK-KEEPER

(TO THE MEMORY OF EDWARD THOMAS)

A tall lean man he was, proud of his gun, Of his garden, and small fruit trees every one Knowing all weather signs, the flight of birds, Farther than I could hear the falling thirds Of the first cuckoo. Able at digging, he Smoked his pipe ever, furiously, contentedly. Full of old country tales his memory was; Yarns of both sea and land, full of wise saws In rough fine speech; sayings his father had, That worked a twelve-hour day when but a lad. Handy with timber, nothing came amiss To his quick skill; and all the mysteries Of sail-making, net-making, boat-building were his. That dark face lit with bright bird-eyes, his stride Manner most friendly courteous, stubborn pride, I shall not forget, not yet his patience With me, unapt, though many a far league hence I’ll travel for many a year, nor ever find A winter-night companion more to my mind, Nor one more wise in ways of Severn river, Though her villages I search for ever and ever.

THE REVELLERS

I saw a silver-bright shield hang Entangled in the topmost boughs Of an old elm-tree, and a house Dreaming; the while a small stream sang A tune of broken silver by, And laughed and wondered at the sky.

A thousand thousand silver lamps Dared the bright moon of stars. O! who, Wandering that silver quiet through, Might heed the river-mists, dew-damps? All Heaven exulted, but Earth lay Breathless and tranced in peace alway.

From the orange-windowed tavern near A song some ancient lover had-- When stars and longing made him mad-- Fashioned from wonder at his dear, Rang out. Yet none there moves a limb To see such stars as passioned him.

The loth moon left the twigs and gazed Full-fronted at the road, the stream, That all but tiniest tunes adream Stilled, held breath at last amazed. The farmers from their revel came; But no stars saw, and felt no flame.

“ANNIE LAURIE”

(TO H. N. H.)

The high barn’s lit by many a guttering flare Of flickering candle, dangerous--(hence forbidden)-- To warm soft straw, whereby the cold floor’s hidden, On which we soon shall rest without a care. War is forgotten. Gossip fills the air Of home, and laughter sounds beyond the midden Under the stars, where Youth makes Joy unchidden Of gods or men, and mocks at sorrow there. But hark! what sudden pure untainted passion Seizes us now, and stills the garrulous? A song of old immortal dedication To Beauty’s service and one woman’s heart. No tears we show, no sign of flame in us This hour of stars and music set apart.

THE BATTALION IS NOW ON REST

(TO “LA COMTESSE”)

Walking the village street, to watch the stars and find Some peace like the old peace, some soothe for soul and mind; The noise of laughter strikes me as I move on my way Towards England--Westward--and the last glow of day.

And here is the end of houses. I turn on my heel, And stay where those voices a moment made me feel As I were on Cotswold, with nothing else to do Than stare at the old houses, to taste the night-dew;

To answer friendly greetings from rough voices kind.... Oh, one may try for ever to be calm and resigned, A red blind at evening sets the poor heart on fire-- Or a child’s face, a sunset--with the old hot desire.

PHOTOGRAPHS

(TO TWO SCOTS LADS)

Lying in dug-outs, joking idly, wearily; Watching the candle guttering in the draught; Hearing the great shells go high over us, eerily Singing; how often have I turned over, and laughed

With pity and pride, photographs of all colours, All sizes, subjects: khaki brothers in France; Or mothers’ faces worn with countless dolours; Or girls whose eyes were challenging and must dance,

Though in a picture only, a common cheap Ill-taken card; and children--frozen, some (Babies) waiting on Dicky-bird to peep Out of the handkerchief that is his home

(But he’s so shy!). And some with bright looks, calling Delight across the miles of land and sea, That not the dread of barrage suddenly falling Could quite blot out--not mud nor lethargy.

Smiles and triumphant careless laughter. O The pain of them, wide Earth’s most sacred things! Lying in dugouts, hearing the great shells slow Sailing mile-high, the heart mounts higher and sings.

But once--O why did he keep that bitter token Of a dead Love?--that boy, who, suddenly moved, Showed me, his eyes wet, his low talk broken, A girl who better had not been beloved.

THAT COUNTY

Go up, go up your ways of varying love, Take each his darling path wherever lie The central fires of secret memory; Whether Helvellyn tower the lakes above; Or black Plinlimmon time and tempest prove; Or any English heights of bravery. I will go climb my little hills to see Severn, and Malverns, May Hill’s tiny grove.

No Everest is here, no peaks of power Astonish men. But on the winding ways White in the frost-time, blinding in full June blaze, A man may take all quiet heart’s delight-- Village and quarry, taverns and many a tower That saw Armada beacons set alight.

INTERVAL

To straight the back, how good; to see the slow Dispersed cloud-flocks of Heaven wandering blind Without a shepherd, feel caress the kind Sweet August air, soft drifting to and fro Meadow and arable.--Leaning on my hoe I searched for any beauty eyes might find. The tossing wood showed silver in the wind; Green hills drowsed wakeful in the golden glow.

Yet all the air was loud with mutterings, Rumours of trouble strange in that rich peace, Where War’s dread birds must practise without cease All that the stoutest pilot-heart might dare. Death over dreaming life managed his wings, Droning dull song in the sun-satiate air.

DE PROFUNDIS

If only this fear would leave me I could dream of Crickley Hill And a hundred thousand thoughts of home would visit my heart in sleep; But here the peace is shattered all day by the devil’s will, And the guns bark night-long to spoil the velvet silence deep.

O who could think that once we drank in quiet inns and cool And saw brown oxen trooping the dry sands to slake Their thirst at the river flowing, or plunged in a silver pool To shake the sleepy drowse off before well awake?

We are stale here, we are covered body and soul and mind With mire of the trenches, close clinging and foul. We have left our old inheritance, our Paradise behind, And clarity is lost to us and cleanness of soul.

O blow here, you dusk-airs and breaths of half-light, And comfort despairs of your darlings that long Night and day for sound of your bells, or a sight Of your tree-bordered lanes, land of blossom and song.

Autumn will be here soon, but the road of coloured leaves Is not for us, the up and down highway where go Earth’s pilgrims to wonder where Malvern upheaves That blue-emerald splendour under great clouds of snow.

Some day we’ll fill in trenches, level the land and turn Once more joyful faces to the country where trees Bear thickly for good drink, where strong sunsets burn Huge bonfires of glory--O God, send us peace!

Hard it is for men of moors or fens to endure Exile and hardship, or the Northland grey-drear; But we of the rich plain of sweet airs and pure, Oh! Death would take so much from us, how should we not fear?

THE TOWER

(TO M. H.)

On the old road of Roman, on the road Of chivalry and pride--the path to Wales Famed in the chronicles and full of tales-- Westward I went, songs in my mouth, and strode Free-bodied, light of heart, Past many a heaped waggon with golden load, And rumbling carrier’s cart. When, near the bridge where snorting trains go under With noise of thunder, I turned and saw A tower stand, like an immortal law--

Permanent, past the reach of Time and Change, Yet fair and fresh as any flower wild blown; As delicate, as fair As any highest tiny cloudlet sown Faint in the upper air. Fragile yet strong, a music that vision seemed. Though all the land was fair, let the eye range Whither it will On plain or hill, It must return where white the tower gleamed Wonderful, irresistible, bubble-bright In the morning light.

And then I knew, I knew why men must choose Rather the dangerous path of arms than let Beauty be broken That is God’s token, The sign of Him; why hearts of courage forget Aught but the need supreme To follow honour and the perilous thing: Scorning Death’s sting; Knowing Man’s faith not founded on a dream.

_Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury._