^■k-^:- diatmll MnimtsitQ ffiibrarg ^aca, Sfem $atk THE C31FT OF Date Due AUG ii^A ■%' VfUiMcii uiiivci: D 526.2.Y18' ' "" """"' *^iiirPiMwiNiii°'" **"* ^3'« review 3 1924 027 944 382 Cornell University Library The original of tiiis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924027944382 WAR POEMS from The Tale Ti^iew REPRINTS FROM THE YALE REVIEW lA 'Book of Tale Review Verse, 1917 War Toemsfrom The Tale l{eview, 1918 WAR POEMS from The Tale Ti^iew WITH A FOREWORD BY THE EDITORS NEW HAVEN YALE UNIVERSITY PRESS J^ondon, Humphrey 'iM'ilford, Oxford University "Press MDCCCCXVIII COPYRIGHT, 19 1 8, BY YALE XJNIVERSITY PRESS r FIRST PUBLISHED, SEPTEMBER, I918 FOREWORD r THOUGH it is still too early to say what goal of permanent art the verse inspired by the Great War will eventually reach, it is already possible to see the direction in which it is moving. Certain distinctive and dynamic values have unmistakably appeared — values which set the characteristic war poetry of our day in marked contrast with that of the past, and with what we know of the curiously archaic expression of modern Ger- many. Our own product, which this little collection from the work of a score of British and American writers may illustrate, is almost strangely free from the mood of the older war minstrels. Our poets to-day are seldom tempted by the pomp and circumstance of armies. They indulge in very little glorification of the sheer joy of combat, the hot hatreds and bloody vengeance of .battle. The war is seen by them rather as a new atonement than as a mighty drama of arms ; and its heroes for them are the men, the women, the children, who have suffered to the utter- most for the redemption of the world. The overwhelming grief; the superhuman endurance; the poignant and tri- umphant dignity of death ; the terrible losses, the spiritual reparations — these are the themes that our war poets have made peculiarly their own. It Is as if they were con- 6 FOREWORD strained by that warning uttered out of the fulness of the wisdom of peace — The tumult and the shouting dies; The captains and the kings depart: Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, An humble and a contrite heart. But for all the tragedy and pathos, there is no weak lament, no vain longing for the peace that is gone. Never in history have war poets been so preoccupied with the greatness of their cause. The beauty of the ideal towards which humanity to-day is struggling through blood, touches and consecrates their art. The Editors. CONTENTS PAGE Baker, Karle Wilson Eagle Youth 27 Bates, Katharine Lee The New IHad 23 Cammaerts, Emile Meditation sur la Nuit du Trois Aout . . .18 CoNKLiNG, Grace Hazard To Francis Ledwidge 37 CoRBiN, Alice A Litany in the Desert 43 DoDD, Lee Wilson The Parting 39 Erskine, John Impressions at the Front 11 FiNLEY, John The Valleys of the Blue Shrouds 15 Fletcher, John Gould A New Heaven 25 Frost, Robert Not to Keep 14 Head, Henry Died of His Wounds 38 8 CONTENTS PAGE Letts, W. M. The Connaught Rangers 45 The Road that Goes West 46 Masefield, John The Will to Perfection 17 McLeod, Irene The Absent Lover 35 Missing 36 MuNGER, Robert The Sleepers 41 NoYES, Alfred The Union 9 Untermeyer, Louis Jerusalem Delivered 28 WAR POEMS from The Tale 'T^eview r ^r ALFRED NOYES r THE UNION YOU that have gathered together the sons of all races, And welded them into one, Lifting the torch of your Freedom on hungering faces That sailed to the setting sun ; You that have made of mankind in your own proud regions The music of man to be, How should the old earth sing of you, now, as your legions Rise to set all men free? How should the singer that knew the proud vision and loved it, In the days when not all men knew, Gaze, through his tears, on the light, now the world has approved it; Or dream, when the dream comes true ? 10 ALFRED NOYES How should he sing when the Spirit of Freedom in thunder Speaks, and the wine-press is red; And the sea-winds are loud with the chains that are broken asunder And nations that rise from the dead? Flag of the sky, proud flag of that wide communion, Too mighty for thought to scan ; Flag of the many in one, and that last world-union That kingdom of God in man; Ours was a dream, in the night, of that last federation, But yours is the glory unfurled, — The marshalled nations and stars that shall make one nation One singing star of the world. I JOHN ERSKINE r IMPRESSIONS AT THE FRONT I S this the front — this level sweep of life, This pageant without pulse of haste or fear? Can this calm exercise be mortal strife ? Is the last reach of passion measured here? We looked for angry blade and poisonous breath Striking the floor of judgment, flail and fan; Here lurked, we thought, crude agonies of death — But here, in one wide dignity, is man. Others behind the conflict, safe and far, Still wage with lips their travesty of war ; We catch the rumor when the cannon cease. Here at the front, when most the cannon rage. The dream-touched actors on this mighty stage In silence play their parts, and seem at peace. II Framed in with battle, this weird pantomime, This dignity of action, conjures up Shades of old heroes — Lancelot in his prime, Galahad, questing for the holy cup. Beautiful Hector marching to his fate, Tristram and Palimedes, rivals twain. 12 JOHN ERSKINE And Roland sounding his proud horn too late — These quiet actors play these parts again. And in the lull the critics far away, Who have not seen, nor ever read, this play, Who cannot act, who never trod the stage — Their quarrel mingles with the threatening cry Of the scene-shifters watching Roland die, Who seize the moment for a better wage. Ill If this world be a stage, what hours we give To tedious make-up in the tiring room; How simply comes at last our cue to live, How, ere we know it, we enact our doom ! The wisdom that impels us to the play Is patient with us while we choose our parts. But without warning sounds our judgment day; The curtain rises — ^life, the drama, starts. How late It starts ! Ere this grim curtain rose, How long we practised attitude and pose. Disguise of accent, costume, mood, or mind I Yet in this inventory of our art. Living at last, we play our naked heart ; How brief a reckoning counts us with our kind ! IV If character be fate, no need to ask Who set the stage, who cast you for the role ; JOHN ERSKINE ^ 13 Pqt on what man you are, put off the mask, Put on the tragic pattern of your soul. At last be true ; no gesture now let spring But from supreme sincerity of art; Let him who plays the monarch be a king. Who plays the rogue, be perfect in his part. So when this hour had rung, the scene began. One played the rash, one played the patient man. And one, the hero, drew the dragon's fangs ; One heard death's bugler calling, and obeyed; And one, a rose-cheeked boy, the martyr played; One played the traitor well — see where he hangs. V We may yet play more roles than we believed. Since to himself at last each man is known. Since now the actor studies undeceived The part he learned, and lived, and has outgrown. And those, the few and flawless, the sublime Whose poignance of perfection strikes us dumb — Even for themselves, in the surprise of the time, Doubt not another reckoning will come. "Comrades, we shall rehearse more wisely — ^yea. There shall be nobler persons in our play. We shall rebuild the plot on kindlier laws." So at the front they act, and see, and ponder, And win, with simple gratitude and wonder. Peace in themselves, which is their sole applause. ROBERT FROST NOT TO KEEP THEY sent him back to her. The letter came Saying . . . and she could have him. And before She could be sure there was no hidden ill Under the formal writing, he was in her sight — Living. — They gave him back to her alive — How else? They are not known to send the dead — And not disfigured visibly. His face? — His hands ? She had to look — to ask "What was it, dear?" And she had given all And still she had all — they had — they the lucky ! Wasn't she glad now? Everything seemed won, And all the rest for them permissible ease. She had to ask "What was it, dear?" "Enough, Yet not enough. A bullet through and through. High in the breast. Nothing but what good care And medicine and rest — and you a week. Can cure me of to go again." The same Grim giving to do over for them both. She dared no more than ask him with her eyes How was it with him for a second trial. And with his eyes he asked her not to ask. They had given him back to her, but not to keep. JOHN FINLEY r THE VALLEYS OF THE BLUE SHROUDS (Where the valiant poilus were buried in their blue uniforms) O SHARDS of walls that once held precious life, Now scattered, like the bones the Prophet saw Lying in visioned valley of the slain Ere, One cried: "Son of Man, can these bones live?" O images of heroes, saints, and Christs, Pierced, broken, thrust in hurried sepulture In selfsame tombs with tinsel, dross, and dreg. And without time for either shrift or shroud ! O smould'ring embers of Love's hearthstone fires. Quenched by the fiercer fires of hellish hate. That have not where to kindle flames again To light succeeding generations on ! O ghost-gray ashes of cathedral towers That toward the sky once raised appealing hands To beg the God of all take residence within And hold communion with the kneeling souls ! O silent tongues of bells that once did ring Matin and Angelus o'er peaceful fields. 16 JOUN FINLEY Now shapeless slag that will to-morrow serve To make new engines for still others' woe I O dust that flowered in finial and foil And bright in many-petaled windows bloomed, Now unto dust returned at cannon's breath To lay thy faded glories on the crypt ! The cirrus dawns in Parsee tapestries With azure broiderings will clothe your walls ; The nimbus noons will shower golden rain And sunset colors fill each Gothic arch ; For o'er thy stricken vales, O valiant France, Our love for thee shall prophesy anew, And Heav'n's Four Winds of Liberty, allied, Shall breathe unpoisoned in thy streets till they Shall pulse again with life that laughs and sings. And yet remembers, singing through its tears The music of an everlasting song — Remembers, proudly and undyingly, The hero dust that lies in shrouds of blue But rises as thy soul, immortal France! JOHN MASEFIELD THE WILL TO PERFECTION O WRETCHED man, that, for a little mile Crawls beneath Heaven for his brother's blood, Whose days the planets number with their style. To whom all earth is slave, all living, food; O withering man, within whose folded shell Lies yet the seed, the spirit's quickening corn. That Time and Sun will change out of the cell Into green meadows, in the world unborn j If Beauty be a dream, do but resolve And fire shall come, that in the stubborn clay Works to make perfect till the rocks dissolve, The barriers burst and beauty takes her way. Beauty herself, within whose blossoming Spring Even wretched man shall clap his hands and sing. EMILE CAMMAERTS r MEDITATION SUR LA NUIT DU TROIS AOUT (1914-1917) (Translation by Madame Cammaerts) — Que f altes-vous assis, la tete dans votre manteau ? — Que f aites-vous accroupis, le menton dans la main ? — Que f aites-vous couches, les yeux leves vers le ciel ? — Nous attendons que le soleil se leve sur les eaux. — Et qu'a la veille succede le lendemain. — Nous attendons que les raorts se reveillent. Les soldats montent la garde autour du tombeau. lis ont roule la pierre, ils ont pose les sceaux. Dans la nuit etoilee brillent leurs baionettes Et ils portent des casques a pointe sur la tete. Ils parlent une langue que nous n'entendons pas, Une langue precise et lourde comme leurs pas. Meme au seuil du tombeau, ils ne baissent pas la voix. Et ils trebuchent en jurant sur les croix. ... Que manque-t-il, mon pays, a ta Passion ? N'as-tu pas eu ton agonie dans le Jardin? N'as-tu pas du subir les caresses de Judas, En cette nuit d'aoiit ou la trahison EMILE CAMMAERTS 19 Te baisait la joue en te tordant la main? N'as-tu pas du, comme Jesus, faire ton choix? Que manque-t-il, mon pays, a ton Calvaire? N'es-tu pas tombe trols fois sous la croix, A Liege, a Namur, a Anvers ? T'ont-ils epargne leurs injures, leurs crachats, Leurs railleries et leurs coups? N'as-tu pas saigne sous la couronne d'epines? N'as-tu pas senti s'enfoncer les clous : Dinant, Termonde, Andenne, Tamines? N'as-tu pas demande a boire Et goute le fiel de I'eponge derisoire Tandis que tes bourreaux, a tes pieds, Se disputaient ta robe a coups de des? N'as-tu pas eu faim et soif de Justice? N'as-tu pas mange le pain de la captivite? N'as-tu pas bu jusqu'a la lie le calice De I'esclavage et de I'iniquite? Pourtant la terre n'a pas celebre ton deuil, Les cieux ne se sont pas obscurcis, Tu n'as pas eu de mains amies Pour te coucher dans ton cercueil. Voila non trois jours mais trois ans que tu tombas, Comme un fruit trop miir, dans ton tombeau. Trois ans qu'ils ont roule la pierre et pose les sceaux Et les morts ne se reveillent toujours pas. . . . — Que faites-vous assis, la tete dans votre manteau? — Que faites-vous couches, les yeux leves vers le ciel? 20 EMILE CAMMAERTS — Que f aites-vous accroupis, le menton dans la main ? — Nous entendons les moissonneurs qui aiguisent leurs faux. — Nous humons les parfums des prairies maternelles. — -Nous regardons palir I'etoile du matin. — What are you doing seated there, with your head wrapped in your cloak? — What are you doing crouched there, with your chin upon your hand? — ^What are you doing lying there, with your eyes fixed on the sky ? — ^We are waiting for the sun to rise upon the waters. — ^And for the morn to follow on the night. — We are waiting for the dead to awake. . . . The soldiers are watching around the tomb, They have rolled the stone in place, they have set the seals. In the starry night their bayonets gleam. They are wearing pointed helmets on their heads. They speak a speech we do not understand, A language harsh and heavy as their steps. By the very grave, they lower not their voices. And they stumble on the crosses and they curse. What is lacking, O my Country, to thy Passion? Hast thou not had thine agony in the Garden ? Wast thou not forced to take Judas kisses. EMILE CAMMAERTS 21 That night In August when treason Kissed thy cheek and wrung thy hand? Didst thou not, like Jesus, have to make thy choice ? What is lacking, O my Country, to thy Calvkry? Didst thou not fall three times beneath the cross — At Liege, at Namur, and at Antwerp ? Wert thou spared their spitting and their insults, Their mockeries and their blows ? Didst thou not bleed beneath a crown of thorns? Didst thou not feel the nails pierce thy flesh — Dinant, Termonde, Andenne, Tamines ? Didst thou not ask to drink, and taste The gall on mocking sponge, 'While underneath thee,, at thy feet. The soldiers cast upon thy vestures lots ? Didst thou not for Justice thirst and hunger? Didst thou not eat the captive's bitter bread? Didst thou not drink unto the very dregs The cruel cup of shame and slavery? And yet the earth did not join in thy mourning. The heavens were not overcast and black. No loving hands were near to lay thee Tenderly in thy tomb. And now, not three days but three years have passed Since thou fellst, like too ripe fruit, into thy grave. Since they rolled the stone in place and set the seals. And still the dead have not arisen again. . . . 22 EMILE CAMMAERTS — ^What are you doing seated there, with your head wrapped in your cloak? — What are you doing lying there, with your eyes fixed on the sky? — ^What are you doing crouched there, with your chin upon your hand? — We are listening to the reapers sharpening their scythes. — We are breathing in the perfume of our country's fields. — We are watching the paling of the morning star. KATHARINE LEE BATES THE NEW ILIAD SO young, with bright tossed hair and eager eyes, The curves and tints of boyhood on a face More fit for mother-kiss than powder-stain. Wearing his khaki like a brief disguise Donned by a student, on our dusty train He sat for hours unmoving in his place. That slender presence, sacrificial, fair, Drew many glances, though. New England bred. One word of all our love we could not speak. We only watched him as he nestled there Against the window, with the page of Greek Open beneath his hand, unturned, unread. His blue eyes conned a mightier Iliad. Those beehive wars of one wife-stealing clan Against another on a windy spur Of Asia Minor faded from the lad Fronting that most tremendous massacre E'er staged by Time, well-skilled tragedian. Where ravening, savage Might, the Antichrist, Gigantic onset makes against the line That holds for Freedom, Honor, Pity, all 24 . JCATHARINE LEE BATES Those slow-won sanctities whose worth is priced Above the utmost cost of blood. Appal Though such cost may, we yield not our Divine. But what new Homer, in what land awaking, Shall chant this war, its crashing battle-waves, Its flying duels mirrored from above Within the rainbow, fatal thunders breaking In ocean's purple depth, the borders of Wide countries wrought in armies and in graves? Down thirty centuries Helen's face has shone By magic of a blind old bard. Thy soul, Edith Cavell, shall not its beauty find Remembrance ? Is the fame by Hector won To lord it still, while dust upon the wind Are the brave deeds that crowd our daily scroll ? With bright tossed hair and eager eyes, the lad. Still as a statue of immortal youth. Leaned to his window, heedless of the Greek, Already in that greater Iliad Striking his blow. The love we could not speak Encompassed him in looks of pride and ruth. JOHN GOULD FLETCHER A NEW HEAVEN WE have our hopes and fears that flout us, We have our illusions, changeless through the years; We have our dreams of rest after long struggle, ^ After our toil is finished, folded hands. But for those who have fallen in battle. What Heaven can there be ? Heaven is full of those who can remember The ebbing-out of life that slowly lingered At the dark doors of pain ; Heaven is full of those who dropped their burden At last through weariness; But these the War has taken Remember naught but their own exultant youth Filling their hearts with unaccomplished dreams : The trumpet-call — ^then the swift searing darkness Stilling the proud sad song. How will these enter in Our old dull Heaven? Where we seek only to drowse at ease, unthinking, Since we are safe at last. 26 JOHN GOULD FLETCHER Safe ? For these souls who faced a thousand dangers, And found'sly Death that robbed them of their chance, Ere it befell? Safe — can a Heaven which is safe and painless, Ever be Heaven to them ? Somewhere amid the clouds there is the home of thunder; Thunder is naught to them. It is a ball, a heavy plaything They may kick hither and thither with their feet. Lightning is but a toy — the flaming stars Are endless camp-fire lights; And for the silence of eternity, They too on out-post duty, often heard it speak. We have the dreams of our fat lives that lead us To waste our lives; We have the false hope we are serving others When it is but ourselves we serve ; Yet for these who have never lived, and whose sole service Was but to die too soon. Perhaps somewhere they are making a new Heaven Filled with the divine despair and joy this dead earth ' never knew. T KARLE WILSON BAKER r EAGLE YOUTH (1918) HEY have taken his horse and plume, They have left him to plod, and fume For a hero's scope and room ! They have curbed his fighting pride. They have bade him burrow and hide With a million, side by side : Look — into the air he springs. Fighting with wings ! He has found a way to be free Of that dun immensity That would swallow up such as he : Who would burrow when he could fly? He will climb up into the sky And the world shall watch him die 1 Only his peers may dare ' Follow him there ! LOUIS UNTERMEYER r JERUSALEM DELIVERED I BOUGHT my paper at the crowded corner And almost shouted as I read the news : "Jerusalem Taken — Freedom For The Jews." Here was a line to answer friend and scorner, A triumph for the just, a proof that Time, So negligent of the affairs of men. Had turned and given us our own at last. And then He stumbled past — A cross between a monarch and a mourner. Dark-eyed and dismal, but with a sublime Assurance in his face. A pride of race Endowed him with an insolent sort of grace. Something at once rebellious and resigned; A dignity that shamed the yoke, A warmth that called and clasped me to my kind. And then he spoke : "What should we want with Zion now, we Jews With iron in our souls, with brain and thews Hardened by hammering epochs ; we who made Majestic dictates that have swayed And outlived conquering empires ; we LOUIS UNTERMEYER 29 In whom a fresh and fiery energy Has blossomed Into psalms and saviors ; turned A savage tribe to kings and priests that burned To set a whole world free. Dreamers that rose against the darkening hordes ; Poets in armor ; prophets bearing swords — We who have lived, triumphant in defeat, Spurring a lagging world, shall we now meet To find the softest path, the easiest road, And run, rejoicing, to a snug retreat? What trade have we with comfort well-bestowed Who are the world's uncomfortable goad? Sorrow has been our quickening bread, and pain The healing wine that made us strong again. A race of exiled shepherds without a fold, We sought new flocks and stopped to weep Over a hundred homes we could not keep. Gathering for others what they could not hold. By the waters of Babylon We sat down and wept; Upon the comfortless willows We hung our harps. A kingdom of priests and a holy nation, We were nourished on hate. Lifting our eyes to the hills We praised all goodness and drank Poison and prejudice, Bigotry and death. . . . So we went forth — 30 LOUIS UNTERMEYER Outcast, defrauded, maligned — Sowing the world with faith; Kindling the earth with a dream. Kindling the earth with a dream, we spread our seed, Warriors and wise men rising from our bones. Summoning Maccabeus in our need, Judas the Hammer sprang up from the stones. We struck with him for nothing but a screed; Assembling all the scattered tones And fragments of the Law, we fought and freed The unborn Western world. We challenged Rome Upon the blood-soaked ruins of our home; And from Barkochba's smouldering defeat We gathered strength to stand against the flood Of lies and inquisitions, greed and blood. When chivalry became a pious cheat. We lived to think and suffer while the fires Of hate beat over us at every step ; While the crusaders raged with bloody feet And Murder, to the tune of 'Hep! Hep! Hep!' Danced at our doors or swaggered down the street. The night hears voices death could never kill In Treves and Strasburg, Worms, Cologne, and Spires. Our ghosts still cry in York and in Seville ; The walls of Kishinev are never still. There was but one escape for us at last — To turn to lusty legends like a blast Of heartening trumpets, wring new life from these, Or heal ourselves In orient imageries. In Paradise There are eighty myriads of trees. The meanest among them is taller Than the cedars of Lebanon And richer than clusters of camphire in the vineyard. of En-gedi. In every corner There are sixty myriads of angels, Bright as the grains of a silver pomegranate Upon which fall the rays of the moon. The Tree of Life stands in the very centre And shades the whole of the heavens. It has fifteen thousand tastes And the p^fumes thereof vary likewise. Over it hang seven clouds of glory; Wild beasts are friendly beneath it, And winds sing in its branches forever. And we shall inherit it. We shall dwell in the fifth of the heavens That is built of raw silver with a wainscot of gold. The canopies are all of stars And the coverlets of the jewelled beds Are purple and blue silks Woven by Eve herself. We shall lie softly there And see the sun come from his chamber like a bride 32 LOUIS UNTERMEYER Or like a strong man about to run a race. We shall watch him rise in the morning, Fresh from his bath of flame, The brightness dripping from his hair. Scattering drops of daylight through the skies. We shall talk with Elijah. And every Monday and Thursday, on Sabbaths and holidays. The Patriarchs shall walk with us And the twelve sons of Jacob, And Moses and David and all the kings of Israel Shall pass with the Messiah. The gates of carbuncle shall lift their heads, The rocks shall clap their hands. Forgotten crannies of the earth be green pavilions And dusty crevices shall bloom with laughter! So we have flourished, fed on dreams and doubt, God-makers and god-breakers, lashing out With Job-like questioning at God and death And answering ourselves in that same breath. An angry blaze, a scornful thundering At all things, and a faith in everything. A fire that swept through Joshua and came To white perfection in Spinoza's flame; That lit Lassalle's and Heine's ironies And shone in quiet radiance from the lives Of Ibn Ezra to Maimonides. The light that, often dimmed, persists and strives Through all of us from Mendelssohn to Marx; LOUIS UNTERMEYER 33 The brand of which they all were scattering sparks — Hillel and Jesus — even so are we. A race that burns, an ever fiery sword To rescue tolerance and set freedom free — This Is our mission, let us never cast Away our boldness which hath great reward. . . . Into the world then, let us bear this light Not skulk back home with it, but swing the bright Brand into musty corners. Let the flame Beat on all smug deceit and placid shame ; Turning our backs on softness, we shall go. Making fresh fires and stronger beacons burn There where the fight is darkest. Let us turn Like a new army risen from its dreams. To sterner measures, universal schemes Wherever something struggles, climbs, or delves. So let us rise above the past we know And be a light not only to ourselves. Out of unburied ages came a voice: 'Listen, O isles, unto me And hearken, ye people, from afar. The Lord hath called me and said. Thou art my servant, O Israel, in whom I am glorified! Yet it is too small a thing that thou shouldst he my .servant To raise up only the tribes of Jacob And to restore the preserved of Israel: No — I will also give thee 34 LOUIS UNTERMEYER For a light to the Gentiles, As a beacon to all men, That my desire and thy mission reach Unto the ends and stretches of the world.' " He stopped. The gray dusk dropped its thin disguise A moment only, and the crowd surged on. A newsboy shrieked the news again and hopped Between us as I sought the old man's eyes, So wise, benevolent, and wan ; Less of a mystery than a shining clue. I turned to ask — something I think I knew But never can be sure of. He was gone. IRENE McLEOD THE ABSENT LOVER SPRING is gone, and summer's here, They're bringing up the hay. Soon they will be harvesting, And my love's still away. I see the apples reddening. And yellow burns the wheat. Lovers sit in summer's heart. And sing to summer's beat. But my love's still away I He lies there, he cries there, I hear him night and day; I cannot hear the birds sing. For my love's still away. I'll not go through the clover field. Along to Foxglove wood, Nor climb the ash on Chapel hill We climbed in happier mood. For my love's still away! We hated never man nor beast, Our hearts were pure and gay. We worshipped love in gentleness. Yet they took my love away. 36 IRENE McLEOD They sent my love a-butchering Other women's dears, And oh, the cries of women's hearts Ring tolling in my ears. They took our loves away ! O summer lanes, O summer fields That smell so sweet of hay. When this is done, and Truth is won- Though my love's still away — May happier lovers love here Where I so lonely tread, And build thy shining city, Love, Over our darling dead. . . . Though my love's still away ! MISSING I KNEW by their eyes when they came, Lips locked on a word unsaid. Hands gentle as pity, or death. . . . It was I who cried out on your name ; Life paused on a breath. . . . Missing ! Hope sprang like a flame ! Not dead ! O my love . . . not dead? GRACE HAZARD CONKLING r TO FRANCIS LEDWIDGE KILLED IN FRANCE, JULY 31, 1917. "Shall I meet Keats in some wild isle of balm Dreaming beside a tarn ?" — Francis Ledwidge. LOVER of the lane-rose, of rainy trees, And speech of com and wind upon the hill, Voice of the deep fields, high priest of the bees When summer whispers all you say she will. Beside what crystal water poised and still Have you bewitched his dreams with news of these And of his nightingale, talking until The wild isle listens and the fairy seas ? But if as far as this, dark rumor flies, And he should ask of England and of France, Graving the dear-bought wisdom of your eyes. Oh give him comfort ! Tell him they still advance, Those grim and glorious men who mean to free Your Flanders grave, and his in Italy ! HENRY HEAD r DIED OF HIS WOUNDS DEATH set his mark and left a mangled thing, With palsied limbs no science could restore, To weary out the weeks or months or years. Amidst the tumult of a mother's tears, Behind the sickrroom door. Where tender skill and subtle knowledge bring Brief respite only from the ultimate Decree of fate. Then, like the flowers we planted in his room. Bud after bud we watched his soul unfold ; Each delicate bloom Of alabaster, violet, and gold Struggled to light. Drawing its vital breath Within the pallid atmosphere of death. That valiant spirit has not passed away. But lives and grows Within us, as a penetrating ray Of sunshine on a crystal surface glows With many-hued refraction. He has fled Into the unknown silence of the night. But cannot die until human hearts are dead. LEE WILSON DODD r THE PARTING MUSE, we have rhymed of Liberty, Have damned the Germans, cheered for France, Exalted Belgium's constancy — Bowed to the times and circumstance : But have we given of our best? Have we not drawn from brackish springs Dead water? Have we stood the test. The test that Life, Life only, brings ? Reflected from her eyes, they fade, Those rhymes of ours ; they thin and are As if they never had been made. Poor Muse ! and must the blight of war Destroy in us the seeds of song. Leave us no hope for flower or fruit? Must all that touches war go wrong. Leaf-withered, blasted at the root? Not all. But, Muse of mine, our hearts Have not the mighty pulse that shakes The soul of nations. Song departs From us, when all we sang of breaks From all we hoped for — peace on earth, Good will to men of kindly will. 40 LEE WILSON DODD Beauty. . . . But what is beauty worth In a crazed world where man must kill Man, to make Truth come true ? Poor Muse, Bewildered Muse of mine, farewell ! Find thou some Heaven apart ! I choose To labor, not to sing, in Hell. ROBERT MUNGER r THE SLEEPERS YOU sleep so sound beneath the earth, You have no care for any birth Of star or flower or foaming swing Of ocean or resurgent spring. You do not hear within the night One faintest sound of old delight, Nor any cry where tumult pours Nor the loud drumming of the wars. How countless ones, like me who fare. Have turned to you their solemn care. Have said like me, in whispers deep, "How still they lie, how sound they sleep." And I — I could not wish that you Should walk this bruised earth anew. That you should forfeit all your gain Of silence and your slumber fain. But I could wish that there might be One moment for your eyes to see The holy flame upon the ways Beyond these reincarnate days. 42 ROBERT MUNGER That, for your proud rest, you might know Where France's bleeding lilies blow. What death they died, what birth they found Who join you now beneath the ground. ALICE CORBIN A LITANY IN THE DESERT ON the other si,de of the Sangre de Crlsto mountains there is a great welter of steel and flame. I have read that it is so. I know nothing of it here. On the other side of the water there is terrible carnage. I have read that it is so. I know nothing of it here. I do not know why men fight and die. I do not know why men sweat and slave. I know nothing of it here. II Out of the peace of your great valleys, America, out of the depth and silence of your deep canyons. Out of the wide stretch of yellow cornfields, out of the stealthy sweep of your rich prairies. Out of the high mountain peaks, out, of the intense purity of your snows. Invigorate us, O America. Out of the deep peace of your breast, out of the sure strength of your loins. Recreate us, O America. Not from the smoke and the fever and fret, not from the welter of furnaces, from the fierce melting-pot of cities ; 44 ALICE CORBIN But from the quiet fields, from the little places, from the dark lamp-lit nights — from the plains, from the cabins, from the little house in the mountains, Breathe strength upon us : And give us the young men who will make us great. W. M. LETTS THE CONNAUGHT RANGERS I SAW the Connaught Rangers when they were passing by. On a spring day, a good day, with gold rifts in the sky. Themselves were marching steadily along the Liffey quay An' I see the young proud look of them as if it was to-day ! The bright lads, the right lads, I have them in my mind, With the green flags on their bayonets all fluttering in the wind! A last look at old Ireland, a last good-bye maybe. Then the gray sea, the wide sea, my grief upon the sea 1 And when will they come home, says I, when will they see once more The dear blue hills of Wicklow and Wexford's dim gray shore? The brave lads of Ireland, no better lads you'll find. With the green flags on their bayonets all fluttering in the wind! Three years have passed since that spring day, sad years for them and me. Green graves there are in Serbia and in Gallipoli. And many who went by that day along the muddy street Will never hear the roadway ring to their triumphant feet. 46 W. M. LETTS But when they march before Him, God's welcome will be kind, And the green flags on their bayonets will flutter in the wind. THE ROAD THAT GOES WEST "And when the world is hushed and the fever of life over and our work done, then in thy mercy give us a safe lodging and a quiet rest." — Prayer. WHEN from this war my way lies to the west, I Footsore and muddy, wounded, shattered, spent, Death being past I shall but crave a rest, A kindly hostel, welcome and content. Some hope for golden streets and gates of pearl And some for haloes and a sea of glass, May God forgive me for a thankless churl — I'd rather have one field of daisied grass. I am too battle-stained for mansions fine, Too tired for the flutes and minstrelsy. A Paradise remote and green be mine. An English Heaven were good enough for me. I'd choose to reach it when the evening sun Sends level beams among the elm tree boles, When rooks and daws fly home and labor's done. And all the wayside flowers wear aureoles. W. M. LETTS 47 Later an English twilight sweet with stocks, A flittering of bats against the sky, Dim orchard grass where dandelion clocks Tell fairy time to elves who wander by. Gnarled boughs beneath the casement of my room. That white still room set far from strife and fear; The church owl hooting in his hallowed gloom, A sound of hurried waters at the weir ; I The house all hushed save when the night winds stir The cluster roses nodding at the pane, Or drowsy moths set soft gray wings a-whirr About the walls, then sink to rest again. How good to lie and dream with fast-shut eyes. Of every care and baulked desire bereft; To take no heed of punishment or prize Or that bewildered toil-worn life I'd left. Who knows, the Master of the house might stand At rising of the moon beside my bed And say, "Sleep on, sleep on," and lay His hatid, In benediction on my weary head.