War's Embers, and Other Verses
Date: 2020-11-26T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: World War; 1914-1918 -- Poetry

The Project Gutenberg eBook of War's Embers, and Other Verses

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: War's Embers, and Other Verses

Author: Ivor Gurney

Release date: November 26, 2020 [eBook #63882]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
available at The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WAR'S EMBERS, AND OTHER VERSES ***

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

SEVERN AND SOMME, 1917

WAR’S EMBERS
AND OTHER VERSES

BY
IVOR GURNEY

London: SIDGWICK & JACKSON, LTD.
3 ADAM STREET, ADELPHI, W.C.2. 1919

First published in 1919

All rights reserved

TO

M. M. S.

O, if my wishes were my power,
You should be praised as were most fit,
Whose kindness cannot help but flower.

But since the fates have ordered it
Otherwise, then ere the hour
Of darkness deaden all my wit

I’ll write: how all my art was poor,
My mind too thought-packed to acquit
My debt ... And only, “Thanks once more.”

A few of the poems in this volume have already appeared in print: “The Volunteer,” “In a Ward,” and “The Battalion is now on Rest” in The Spectator; “The Immortal Hour” in The Westminster Gazette; “The Day of Victory” in The Gloucester Journal; and “After Music” in The R.C.M, Magazine. The author desires to thank the respective editors for their kind permission to include these poems in the present collection.

CONTENTS

| PAGE
DEDICATION: TO M. M. S. | 7
THE VOLUNTEER | 13
THE FARM | 15
OMENS | 18
ETERNAL TREASURE | 19
FIRE IN THE DUSK | 20
TURMUT-HOEING | 21
IN A WARD | 22
CAMPS | 23
GIRL’S SONG | 25
SOLACE OF MEN | 26
DAY-BOYS AND CHORISTERS | 27
AT RESERVE DEPOT | 29
TOASTS AND MEMORIES | 30
FROM THE WINDOW | 32
YPRES—MINSTERWORTH | 33
NEAR MIDSUMMER | 34
TOUSSAINTS | 36
THE STONE-BREAKER | 38
DRIFTING LEAVES | 40
CONTRASTS | 41
TO F. W. H. | 43
THE IMMORTAL HOUR | 44
TO HIS LOVE | 45
MIGRANTS | 46
OLD MARTINMAS EVE | 48
AFTER MUSIC | 49
THE TARGET | 50
TWIGWORTH VICARAGE | 51
HOSPITAL PICTURES:
1. LADIES OF CHARITY | 52
2. DUST | 53
3. “ABERDONIAN” | 55
4. COMPANION—NORTH-EAST DUGOUT | 56
5. THE MINER | 57
6. UPSTAIRS PIANO | 58
HIDDEN TALES | 61
RECOMPENSE | 62
THE TRYST | 63
THE PLAIN | 64
RUMOURS OF WARS | 65
“ON REST” | 67
DICKY | 70
THE DAY OF VICTORY | 71
PASSIONATE EARTH | 75
THE POPLAR | 76
DOWN COMMERCIAL ROAD (GLOUCESTER) | 77
FROM OMIECOURT | 79
LE COQ FRANÇAIS | 80
THE FISHERMAN OF NEWNHAM | 82
THE LOCK-KEEPER | 83
THE REVELLERS | 84
“ANNIE LAURIE” | 85
THE BATTALION IS NOW ON REST | 86
PHOTOGRAPHS | 87
THAT COUNTY | 89
INTERVAL | 90
DE PROFUNDIS | 91
THE TOWER | 93

WAR’S EMBERS

THE VOLUNTEER

(To A. L. B.)

I would test God’s purposes:
I will go up and see
What fate He’ll give, what destiny
His hand holds for me.

For God is very secret,
Slow-smiles, but does not say
A word that will foreshadow
Shape of the coming day.

Curious am I, curious ...
And since He will not tell
I’ll prove Him, go up against
The naked mouth of Hell.

And what hereafter—Heaven?
Or Blighty? O if it were ...
Mere agony, mere pain the price
Of the returning there.

Or—nothing! Days in mud
And slush, then other days ...
Aie me! “Are they not all
The seas of God”; God’s Ways?

THE FARM

(To Mrs. Harvey and Those Others)

A creeper-covered house, an orchard near;
A farmyard with tall ricks upstanding clear
In golden sunlight of a late September.——
How little of a whole world to remember!
How slight a thing to keep a spirit free!
Within the house were books,
A piano, dear to me,
And round the house the rooks
Haunted each tall elm tree;
Each sunset crying, calling, clamouring aloud.

And friends lived there of whom the house was proud,
Sheltering with content from wind and storm,
Them loving gathered at the hearthside warm,
(O friendly, happy crowd!)
Caress of firelight gave them, touching hair
And cheeks and hands with sombre gleams of love,
(When day died out behind the lovely bare
Network of twigs, orchard and elms apart;
When rooks lay still in round dark nests above,
And Peace like cool dew comforted the heart.)
The house all strangers welcomed, but as strangers kept
For ever them apart
From its deep heart,
That hidden sanctuary of love close guarded;
Having too great a honey-heap uphoarded
Of children’s play, men’s work, lightly to let
Strangers therein;
Who knew its stubborn pride, and loved the more
The place from webbed slate roof to cellar floor—
Hens clucking, ducks, all casual farmyard din.
How empty the place seemed when Duty called
To harder service its three sons than tending
Brown fruitful good earth there! But all’s God’s sending.
Above the low barn where the oxen were stalled
The old house watched for weeks the road, to see
Nothing but common traffic; nothing its own.
It had grown to them so used, so long had known
Their presences; sheltered and shared sorrow and glee,
No wonder it felt desolate and left alone ...
That must remember, nothing at all forget.
My mind (how often!) turned and returned to it,
When in queer holes of chance, bedraggled, wet,
Lousy I lay; to think how by Severn-side
A house of steadfastness and quiet pride
Kept faith to friends (when hope of mine had died
Almost to ash). And never twilight came
With mystery and peace and points of flame—
Save it must bring sounds of my Severn flowing
Steadily seawards, orange windows glowing
Bright in the dusk, and many a well-known name.

OMENS
(To E. H.)

Black rooks about the trees
Are circling slow;
Tall elms that can no ease
Nor comfort know,
Since that the Autumn wind
Batters them before, behind,
A bitter breeze unkind.

They call like tongues of dread
Prophesying woe,
Rooks on the sunset red,
Not heeding how
Their clamouring brings near
To a woman the old fear
For her far soldier dear.

That harsh and idle crying
Of mere annoy
Tells her how men are dying,
And how her boy
May lie, his racked thought turning
To the home fire on the hearth burning,
The last agony be learning.

ETERNAL TREASURE
(To H. N. H.)

Why think on Beauty as for ever lost
When fire and steel have worked their evil will,
Since Beauty lasts beyond decaying dust,
And in the after-dark is lovely still?
We are no phantoms; Body is but the case
Of an immortal Flame that does not perish,
Can the all-withering power of Time outface,
Since God Himself with love that flame does cherish.
Take comfort then, and dare the dangerous thing,
Death flouting with his impotence of wrath;
For Beauty arms us ’gainst his envious sting,
Safes us in any the most perilous path.
Come then, O brothers, greet what may befall
With Joy, for Beauty’s Maker ordereth all.

FIRE IN THE DUSK

When your white hands have lost their fairy power,
Like dimpling water flash and charm no more,
Quick pride of grace is still, closed your bright eyes—
I still must think, under those Northern skies,
Some influence shall remain of all that sweet;
Some flower of courage braving Easter sleet;
Colour to stir tears in tenderest skies;
Music of light. Your Autumn beeches shall
Set passion blazing in a heart until
Colour you gave be fashioned in formal line
On line; another’s beauty prove divine,
And all your wandering grace shall not be lost
To earth, being too precious, too great of cost—
Last wonder to awake the divine spark,
A lovely presence lighting Summer’s dark;
Though dust your frame of flesh, such dust as makes
Blue radiance of March in hidden brakes....
Pass from your body then, be what you will,
Whose light-foot walk outdanced the daffodil,
Since Time can but confirm you and fulfil
That hidden crescent power in you—Old Time,
Spoiler of pride, and towers, and breath, and rhyme,
Yet on the spirit impotent of power and will.

TURMUT-HOEING

I straightened my back from turmut-hoeing
And saw, with suddenly opened eyes,
Tall trees, a meadow ripe for mowing,
And azure June’s cloud-circled skies.

Below, the earth was beautiful
Of touch and colour, fair each weed,
But Heaven’s high beauty held me still,
Only of music had I need.

And the white-clad girl at the old farm,
Who smiled and looked across at me,
Dumb was held by that strong charm
Of cloud-ships sailing a foamless sea.

IN A WARD
(To J. W. H.)

O wind that tosses free
The children’s hair;
Scatters the blossom of
Apple and pear;
Blow in my heart, touch me,
Gladden me here.

You have seen so many things—
Blow in and tell
Tales of white sand and golden
’Gainst the sea swell.
Bring me fine meadow-thoughts,
Fresh orchard smell.

Here we must stare through glass
To see the sun—
Stare at flat ceilings white
Till day is done:
While you, sunshine, starshine,
May out and run.

Blow in and bring us all
Dear home-delight—
Green face of the Spring earth,
Blue of deep night.
Blot each of our faces
From the others’ sight.

CAMPS

Out of the line we rest in villages
Quiet indeed, where heal the spirit’s scars;
But even so, lapped deep in sunshine and ease,
We are haunted for ever by the shapes of wars.

Green in the sun they lie, secret, deserted,
Lovely against the blue the summits show,
Where once the bright steel sang, the red blood spurted,
And brave men cowed their terrors long ago.

By day their life was easy; but at night,
Even now, one hears strange rustlings in the bush;
And, straining tensely doubtful ear and sight,
The stealthy moving ere the sudden rush;

And flinches from the spear. War’s just-bright embers
That Earth still keeps and treasures for the pride
In sacrifice there shown; with love remembers
The beauty and quick strength of men that died.

Who died as we may die, for Freedom, beauty
Of common living, calmly led in peace,
Yet took the flinty road and hard of duty,
Whose end was life abundant and increase.

But—when Heaven’s gate wide opening receives us
Victors and full of song, forgetting scars;
Shall we see to stir old memories, to grieve us,
Heaven’s never-yet-healed sores of Michael’s wars?

GIRL’S SONG

The tossing poplar in the wind
Shows underleaf of silver-white;
The roughness of the wind unkind
Torments her out of all delight.
But O that he were here
Whose blows and whose caresses alike were dear!

The great oak to the tearing blast
Stands steady with strong arms held wide,
So over him my anger passed,
When his rough usage hurt my pride.
But O that once again
I might arouse that passion, endure that pain!

SOLACE OF MEN

Sweet smelling, sweet to handle, fair of hue
Tobacco is. The soldier everywhere
Takes it as friend, its friendliness to share,
Whether in fragrant wreaths it mount faint blue
In dug-out low, or surreptitiously to
Parapet in rimy night, from hidden lair
Of sentry; staying hunger, stilling fear—
The old dreams of comfort bringing anew.
For from that incense grows the stuff of dreams,
And in those clouds a drowsing man may find
All that was ever sweet to his starved mind,
Heart long denied—dear friends, hills, horses, trees,
Slopes of brown ploughland, sunset’s fading gleams ...
The bane of care, the spur to memories.

DAY-BOYS AND CHORISTERS
(To the Boys of King’s School, Gloucester, 1900-1905)

Under the shade of the great Tower
Where pass the goodly and the wise,
Year in, year out, winter and summer,
With scufflings and excited cries,
Football rages, not told in pages
Of Fame whereof the wide world hears;
A battle of divided Empire—
The day-boys and the choristers.

Chorus
So here’s to the room where the dark beams cross over,
And here’s to the cupboard where hides the cane;
The paddock and fives-court, great chestnut, tall tower—
When Fritz stops his fooling we’ll see them again.

Golf balls, tennis balls, cricket and footballs,
Balls of all sizes and sorts were sent
Soaring by wall and arch and ivy
High, high over to banishment.
(Poor owner that loses!) And oh! but the bruises,
Scars, and red hacks to cover the brave
Shins of the boldest, when up and down playground
Victory surged, Victory, edged like a wave.

Chorus
So here’s to the room where the dark beams cross over,
And here’s to the cupboard where hides the cane,
The paddock and fives-court, great chestnut, tall tower—
When Fritz stops his fooling we’ll see them again.

Little they knew, those boys, how in Flanders
And plains of France, in another day
A trial dreadful of nerve and sinew
For four long years should test alway
That playtime pluck, that yet should carry
Them through Hell’s during worst, and how
Europe should honour them, a whole world praise them,
Though Death tore their bodies and laid them low.

Chorus
So here’s to the room where the dark beams cross over,
And here’s to the cupboard where hides the cane;
The paddock and fives-court, great chestnut, tall tower—
When Fritz stops his fooling we’ll see them again.

AT RESERVE DEPOT

When Spring comes here with early innocency
Of pale high blue, they’ll put Revally back.
The passers-by carelessly amused will see
Breakfastless boys killing the patient sack.

And there will be manœuvres where the violet shows,
Hiding its dark fervour, guarding its flame,
Where I shall lie and stare while the mystery grows
Huge and more huge, till the Sergeant calls my name.

TOASTS AND MEMORIES
(To the Men of the 2/5 Gloucester Regiment)

When once I sat in estaminets
With trusty friends of mine,
We drank to folk in England
And pledged them well in wine,

While thoughts of Gloucester filled us—
Roads against windy skies
At sunset, Severn river,
Red inn-blinds, country cries.

That stung the heart with sorrow
And barbéd sweet delight
At Riez Bailleul, Laventie,
At Merville, many a night.

Now I am over Channel
I cannot help but think
Of friends who stifle longing
With friendly food and drink.

“Where’s Gurney now, I wonder,
That smoked a pipe all day;
Sometimes that talked like blazes,
Sometimes had naught to say?”

And I, at home, must wonder
Where all my comrades are:
Those men whose Heart-of-Beauty
Was never stained by War.

FROM THE WINDOW

Tall poplars in the sun
Are quivering, and planes,
Forgetting the day gone,
Its cold un-August rains;
But with me still remains
The sight of beaten corn,
Crushed flowers and forlorn,
The summer’s wasted gains—
Yet pools in secret lanes
Abrim with heavenly blue
Life’s wonder mirror anew.
I must forget the pains
Of yesterday, and do
Brave things—bring loaded wains
The bare brown meadows through,
I must haste, I must out and run,
Wonder, till my heart drains
Joy’s cup, as in high champagnes
Of blue, where great clouds go on
With white sails free from stains
Full-stretched, on fleckless mains—
With captain’s joy of some proud galleon.

YPRES—MINSTERWORTH
(To F. W. H.)

Thick lie in Gloucester orchards now
Apples the Severn wind
With rough play tore from the tossing
Branches, and left behind
Leaves strewn on pastures, blown in hedges,
And by the roadway lined.

And I lie leagues on leagues afar
To think how that wind made
Great shoutings in the wide chimney,
A noise of cannonade—
Of how the proud elms by the signpost
The tempest’s will obeyed—

To think how in some German prison
A boy lies with whom
I might have taken joy full-hearted
Hearing the great boom
Of Autumn, watching the fire, talking
Of books in the half gloom.

O wind of Ypres and of Severn
Riot there also, and tell
Of comrades safe returned, home-keeping
Music and Autumn smell.
Comfort blow him and friendly greeting,
Hearten him, wish him well!

NEAR MIDSUMMER

Severn’s most fair to-day!
See what a tide of blue
She pours, and flecked alway
With gold, and what a crew
Of seagulls snowy white
Float round her to delight
Villagers, travellers.
A brown thick flood is hers
In winter when the rains
Wash down from Midland plains,
Halting wayfarers,
Low meadows flooding deep
With torrents from the steep
Mountains of Wales and small
Hillocks of no degree—
Streams jostling to the sea;
(Wrangling yet brotherly).
Blue June has altered all—
The river makes its fall
With murmurous still sound,
Past Pridings faëry ground,
And steep-down Newnham cliff....
O Boys in trenches, if
You could see what any may
(Escaping town for the day),
Strong Severn all aglow,
But tideless, running slow:
Far Cotswolds all a-shimmer,
Blue Bredon leagues away—
Huge Malverns, farther, dimmer ...
Then you would feel the fire
Of the First Days inspire
You, when, despising all
Save England’s, honour’s call,
You dared the worst for her:
Faced all things without fear,
So she might stand alway
A free Mother of men;
High Queen as on this day.
There would flood through you again
The old faith, the old pride
Wherein our fathers died,
Whereby our land was builded and dignified.

TOUSSAINTS
(To J. W. H.)

Like softly clanging cymbals were
Plane-trees, poplars Autumn had
Arrayed in gloriously sad
Garments of beauty wind-astir;
It was the day of all the dead—

Toussaints. In sombre twos and threes
Between those coloured pillars went
Drab mourners. Full of presences
The air seemed ... ever and anon rent
By a slow bell’s solemnities.

The past year’s gloriously dead
Came, folk dear to that rich earth
Had given them sustenance and birth,
Breath and dreams and daily bread,
Took labour-sweat, returned them mirth.

Merville across the plain gleamed white,
The thronged still air gave never a sound,
Only, monotonous untoned
The bell of grief and lost delight.
Gay leaves slow fluttered to the ground.

Sudden, that sense of peace and prayer
Like vapour faded. Round the bend
Swung lines of khaki without end....
Common was water, earth and air;
Death seemed a hard thing not to mend.

THE STONE-BREAKER
(To Dorothy)

The early dew was still untrodden,
Flawless it lay on flower and blade,
The last caress of night’s cold fragrance
A freshness in the young day made.

The velvet and the silver floor
Of the orchard-close was gold inlaid
With spears and streaks of early sunlight—
Such beauty makes men half afraid.

An old man at his heap of stones
Turned as I neared his clinking hammer,
Part of the earth he seemed, the trees,
The sky, the twelve-hour heat of summer.

“Fine marnen, zür!” And the earth spoke
From his mouth, as if the field dark red
On our right hand had greeted me
With words, that grew tall grain instead.
. . . . .
Oh, years ago, and near forgot!
Yet, as I walked the Flemish way,
An hour gone, England spoke to me
As clear of speech as on that day;
Since peasants by the roadway working
Hailed us in tones uncouth, and one
Turned his face toward the marching column,
Fronted, took gladness from the sun.

And straight my mind was set on singing
For memory of a wrinkled face,
Orchards untrodden, far to travel,
Sweet to find in my own place.

DRIFTING LEAVES

The yellow willow leaves that float
Down Severn after Autumn rains
Take not of trouble any note—
Lost to the tree, its joys and pains.

But man that has a thousand ties
Of homage to his place of birth,
Nothing surrenders when he dies;
But yearns for ever to his earth—

Red ploughlands, trees that friended him,
Warm house of shelter, orchard peace.
In day’s last rosy influence dim
They flock to us without a cease;

Through fast-shut doors of olden houses
In soundless night the dear dead come,
Whose sorrow no live folk arouses,
Running for comfort hither home.

Though leaves on tide may idly range,
Grounding at last on some far mire—
Our memories can never change:
We are bond, we are ruled with Love’s desire.

CONTRASTS

If I were on the High Road
That runs to Malvern Town,
I should not need to read, to smoke,
My fear of death to drown;
Watching the clouds, skies, shadows dappling
The sweet land up and down.

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)

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.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WAR'S EMBERS, AND OTHER VERSES ***

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you are located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works provided that:

- • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”

- • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works.

- • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work.

- • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™

Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit 501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.

Table of Contents

- WAR’S EMBERS AND OTHER VERSES
- TO M. M. S.
- CONTENTS
- WAR’S EMBERS THE VOLUNTEER (To A. L. B.)
- THE FARM (To Mrs. Harvey and Those Others)
- OMENS (To E. H.)
- ETERNAL TREASURE (To H. N. H.)
- FIRE IN THE DUSK
- TURMUT-HOEING
- IN A WARD (To J. W. H.)
- CAMPS
- GIRL’S SONG
- SOLACE OF MEN

- DAY-BOYS AND CHORISTERS (To the Boys of King’s School, Gloucester, 1900-1905)

- AT RESERVE DEPOT

- TOASTS AND MEMORIES (To the Men of the 2/5 Gloucester Regiment)

- FROM THE WINDOW
- YPRES—MINSTERWORTH (To F. W. H.)
- NEAR MIDSUMMER
- TOUSSAINTS (To J. W. H.)
- THE STONE-BREAKER (To Dorothy)
- DRIFTING LEAVES
- CONTRASTS
- TO F. W. H.
- THE IMMORTAL HOUR (To Winnie)
- TO HIS LOVE
- MIGRANTS (To Mrs. Taylor)
- OLD MARTINMAS EVE
- AFTER MUSIC
- THE TARGET
- TWIGWORTH VICARAGE (To A. H. C.)

- HOSPITAL PICTURES (To the Nurses of Ward 24, Bangour War Hospital, near Edinburgh)

- 1. LADIES OF CHARITY
- 2. DUST
- 3. “ABERDONIAN”
- 4. COMPANION—NORTH-EAST DUGOUT
- 5. THE MINER
- 6. UPSTAIRS PIANO

- HIDDEN TALES

- RECOMPENSE (To the Men of the 2/5 Gloucester Regiment)

- THE TRYST (To W. M. C.)
- THE PLAIN
- RUMOURS OF WARS (To Mrs. Voynich)

- “ON REST” (To the Men of the 2/5 Gloucester Regiment)

- DICKY (To his Memory)
- THE DAY OF VICTORY (To my City)
- PASSIONATE EARTH (To J. W. H.)
- THE POPLAR (To Micky)

- DOWN COMMERCIAL ROAD (GLOUCESTER) (To my Mother)

- FROM OMIECOURT
- LE COQ FRANÇAIS (To Ronald)
- THE FISHERMAN OF NEWNHAM (To my Father)

- THE LOCK-KEEPER (To the Memory of Edward Thomas)

- THE REVELLERS

- “ANNIE LAURIE” (To H. N. H.)

- THE BATTALION IS NOW ON REST (To “La Comtesse”)

- PHOTOGRAPHS (To Two Scots Lads)
- THAT COUNTY
- INTERVAL
- DE PROFUNDIS
- THE TOWER (To M. H.)
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE