I : ' ' ) ; ) I \ 
 
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CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME 
 OF THE SAGE ENDOWMENT 
 FUND GIVEN IN 1891 BY 
 
 HENRY WILLIAMS SAGE 
 
CORNELL UNIVERSITY UBFJABY 
 
 3 1924 103 023 689 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis bool< 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/cu31924103023689 
 
ON HEAVEN 
 
 AND POEMS WRITTEN ON ACTIVE 
 SERVICE 
 
BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 THE GOOD SOLDIER: A Novel 
 
 With Violet Hunt 
 ZEPPELIN NIGHTS. A London 
 Entertainment 
 
 THE BODLEY HEAD 
 
ON HEAVEN 
 
 AND POEMS WRITTEN 
 ON ACTIVE SERVICE BY 
 
 FORD MADOX HUEFFER 
 
 LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD 
 NEW YORK : JOHN LANE COMPANY MCMXVIII 
 
Printed in Great Britain 
 hy TurnbuU &* S^ears^ Edinbur^ 
 
PREFACE 
 
 With the exception of " On Heaven " and four 
 others, all these poems were written on active 
 service, " On Heaven " was written, as far 
 as I can remember, during the early months of 
 1914. . . . 
 
 I have always written provocative prefaces to 
 my pubhcations, which have been many enough, 
 God knows ! Now, for the first time in a literary 
 life that has lasted exactly a quarter of a century, 
 I desire to be deprecatory. " On Heaven," I 
 mean, is not a poem that I should publish of 
 my own vohtion. It expresses what, quaintly 
 enough, is my belief of what Heaven will be 
 like — or rather of what Heaven is. If it is a 
 
 5 
 
PREFACE 
 
 materialist's Heaven I can't help it. I suppose 
 I am a materialist. . . . But that is not what 
 I set out to say. 
 
 I wrote this particular poem with a great deal 
 of enthusiasm. When it was published in an 
 American magazine called Poetry, I disliked it 
 very much. It appeared to me to be what I 
 should now call " too sloppy." How I should 
 then have phrased my objection I can't now 
 recall, but, though I should have used more 
 words, probably, the purport would have been 
 the same. So I determined to suppress the 
 poem. But, to some extent, the wishes of 
 certain readers of Poetry, and, to a larger extent, 
 the conviction — or it might be more modest to 
 say, the hope ! — that it will bring comfort to 
 the hearts of some of my comrades and some 
 of the womenfolk of my comrades, have 
 6 
 
PREFACE 
 
 made me resuscitate the poem. That is not 
 a literary reason and I ask pardon of the 
 literary. 
 
 But I think that, in these sad days and years, 
 we have got to believe in a Heaven — and we 
 shall be all the happier if it is a materialist's 
 Heaven. I know at least that I would not keep 
 on going if I did not feel that Heaven will be 
 something like Rumpelmayer's tea shop, with 
 the nice boys in khaki, with the haze and 
 glimmer of the bright buttons, and the nice 
 girls in the fashions appropriate to the day, and 
 the little orchestra playing, " Let the Great 
 Big World. . . ." For our dead wanted so badly 
 their leave in a Blighty, which would have been 
 like that — they wanted it so badly that they 
 must have it. And they must have just that.^ 
 For haven't we Infantry all seen that sort of 
 
 7 
 
PREFACE 
 
 shimmer and shine and heard the rustling and 
 the music through all the turmoil and the mire 
 and the horror ? . . . And dying so, those 
 images assuredly are the last things that our 
 eyes shall see : that imagination is stronger 
 than death. For we must have some such 
 Heaven to make up for the deep mud and the 
 bitter weather and the long lasting fears and 
 the cruel hunger for light, for graciousness and 
 for grace ! . . . 
 
 And, for myself, I desire a little to be remem- 
 bered as a living man — so that I have taken the 
 liberty of dating those poems that I have written 
 whilst on active service. That adds to the local 
 interest of the verses. It is a non-literary device 
 such as I have always condemned — ^but I allow 
 myself the pleasure since I am no longer a writer 
 and have no longer any place in the world of 
 8 
 
PREFACE 
 
 letters. The undated poems were all written 
 between August 4, 1914 and August 20, 1915. 
 
 The greater part of the book is, I notice on 
 putting it together, in either vers libre or rhymed 
 vers libre. I am not going to apologise for this 
 or to defend vers libre as such. It is because I 
 simply can't help it. Vers libre is the only 
 medium in which I can convey any more intimate 
 moods. Vers libre is a very jolly medium in 
 which to write and to read, if it be read 
 conversationally and quietly. And anyhow, 
 symmetrical or rhymed verse is for me a cramped 
 and difficult medium — or an easy and unin- 
 teresting one. But I certainly don't put the 
 things forward with any jaunty air or fling 
 them in the faces of critics. I am too sad and 
 too tired to care about pulling the leg of the 
 critic of the . It is still hypocrisy to seek 
 
 9 
 
PREFACE 
 
 for the person of the sacred Emperor in a low 
 tea shop. F. M. H. 
 
 P.S. — I have added as an appendix some 
 verses written in moments of leisure in the 
 O.R. of No. I Garrison Coy., Welch Regt. 
 These were poems written to bouts rhimes supplied 
 to me by my friend and old O.C. Coy. H. C. 
 James. When in a minute or two I had filled 
 in the lines in English, in a few seconds he would 
 supply the Latin version. Of course they are 
 rough products : they were written whilst 
 attending to the needs of 890 returned Expedi- 
 tionary Force men, and we were subject to the 
 shocked incursions of C.S.M. Stephens, now 
 R.S.M., and of Corporal Stanley of the R.M.P. 
 . . . Not to mention the Adjutant ! . . . 
 
 10 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 I. 
 
 Antwerp ..... 
 
 
 PAGB 
 
 17 
 
 II. 
 
 " When the World was in Building " 
 
 27 
 
 III. 
 
 " When the World Crumbled " 
 
 z8 
 
 IV. 
 
 "What the Orderly Dog Saw" 
 
 29 
 
 V. 
 
 The Silver Music . 
 
 
 33 
 
 VI. 
 
 The Iron Music 
 
 
 35 
 
 VII. 
 
 "A SoLis Ortus Cardine" 
 
 
 37 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The Old Houses of Flanders 
 
 
 • 38 
 
 IX. 
 
 Albade .... 
 
 
 40 
 
 X. 
 
 Clair de Lune . 
 
 
 42 
 
 XI. 
 
 One Day's List. 
 
 
 . 46 
 
 XII. 
 
 One Last Prayer 
 
 
 S3 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Regimental Records — I. . 
 
 
 SS 
 
 
 n. . 
 
 
 ■ 56 
 
 
 „ HI. . 
 
 
 57 
 II 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 ?AGB 
 
 XIV. Footsloggers . . . . . . J 8 
 
 XV. "That Exploit of Yours ..." . . ^^ 
 
 XVI. On Heaven 79 
 
 XVII. Appendix : Diversions of an O/R. . . 1 1 1 
 
 Of these "Antwerp'' was first published by the "Poetry Bookshop," 
 "What the Orderly Dog Saw," and "On Heaven" by Poetry ot 
 Chicago, "The Old Houses of Flanders "in B/asi, and "Iron 
 Music " by the JVeslminster Gazette. The others, as far as I know, 
 have not yet seen the light. F. M. H, 
 
 12 
 
TO 
 
 LT.-COL. G. R. POWELL 
 
 SOMETIME COMMANDING 
 
 A BATTALION OF THE WELCH 
 
 REGIMENT 
 
 THIS 
 
 WITH AFFECTION 
 
ON HEAVEN 
 
 AND POEMS WRITTEN ON ACTIVE 
 SERVICE 
 
I 
 
 ANTWERP 
 
 I 
 
 Gloom ! 
 
 An October like November ; 
 
 August a hundred thousand hours, 
 
 And all September, 
 
 A hundred thousand, dragging sunlit days, 
 
 And half October like a thousand years . . . 
 
 And doom ! 
 
 That then was Antwerp. . . . 
 
 In the name of God, 
 How could they do it ? 
 Those souls that usually dived 
 
 B 17 
 
ANTWERP 
 
 Into the dirty caverns of mines ; 
 
 Who usually hived 
 
 In whitened hovels ; under ragged poplars ; 
 
 Who dragged muddy shovels, over the grassy mud, 
 
 Lumbering to work over the greasy sods. . . . 
 
 Those men there, with the appearances of clods 
 
 Were the bravest men that a usually listless priest 
 
 of God 
 Ever shrived. . . . 
 
 And it is not for us to make them an anthem. 
 If we found words there would come no wind 
 
 that would fan them 
 To a tune that the trumpets might blow it, 
 Shrill through the heaven that's ours or yet 
 
 Allah's 
 Or the wide halls of any Valhallas. 
 We can make no such anthem. So that all that 
 
 is ours 
 i8 
 
ANTWERP 
 
 For inditing in sonnets, pantoums, elegiacs, or lays 
 
 Is this : 
 
 " In the name of God, how could they do it ? " 
 
 II 
 
 For there is no new thing under the sun, 
 
 Only this uncomely man with a smoking gun 
 
 In the gloom. . . . 
 
 What the devil will he gain by it ? 
 
 Digging a hole in the mud and standing all day 
 
 in the rain by it 
 Waiting his doom, 
 
 The sharp blow, the swift outpouring of the blood, 
 Till the trench of grey mud 
 Is turned to a brown purple drain by it. 
 Well, there have been scars 
 Won in many wars . . . 
 Punic, 
 
 19 
 
ANTWERP 
 
 Lacedaemonian, wars of Napoleon, wars for faith, 
 wars for honour, for love, for possession, 
 
 But this Belgian man in his ugly tunic, 
 
 His ugly round cap, shooting on, in a sort of 
 obsession, 
 
 Overspreading his miserable land, 
 
 Standing with his wet gun in his hand . . . 
 
 Doom ! 
 
 He finds that in a sudden scrimmage, 
 
 And lies, an unsightly lump on the sodden grass . , . 
 
 An image that shall take long to pass ! 
 
 Ill 
 For the white-limbed heroes of Hellas ride by 
 
 upon their horses 
 Forever through our brains. 
 The heroes of Cressy ride by upon their staUions ; 
 And battalions and battalions and battalions — 
 
 20 
 
ANTWERP 
 
 The Old Guard, the Young Guard, the men of 
 
 Minden and of Waterloo, 
 Pass, for ever staunch, 
 Stand for ever true ; 
 
 And the small man with the large paunch. 
 And the grey coat, and the large hat, and the 
 
 hands behind the back, 
 Watches them pass 
 In our minds for ever . . . 
 But that clutter of sodden corses 
 On the sodden Belgian grass — 
 That is a strange new beauty. 
 
 IV 
 
 With no especial legends of marchings or triumphs 
 
 or duty. 
 Assuredly that is the way of it. 
 The way of beauty . . . 
 
 21 
 
ANTWERP 
 
 And that is the highest word you can find to say 
 
 of it. 
 For you cannot praise it with words 
 Compounded of lyres and swords, 
 But the thought of the gloom and the rain 
 And the ugly coated figure, standing beside a drain, 
 Shall eat itself into your brain. 
 And that shall be an honourable word ; 
 " Belgian " shall be an honourable word, 
 As honourable as the fame of the sword. 
 As honourable as the mention of the many- 
 
 chorded lyre. 
 And his old coat shall seem as beautiful as the 
 
 fabrics woven in Tyre. 
 
 And what in the world did they bear it for ? 
 I don't know. 
 
 22 
 
ANTWERP 
 
 And what in the world did they dare it for ? 
 
 Perhaps that is not for the likes of me to under- 
 stand. 
 
 They could very well have watched a hundred 
 legions go 
 
 Over their fields and between their cities 
 
 Down into more southerly regions. 
 
 They could very well have let the legions pass 
 through their woods, 
 
 And have kept their lives and their wives and 
 their children and cattle and goods. 
 
 I don't understand. 
 
 Was it just love of their land ? 
 
 Oh poor dears ! 
 
 Can any man so love his land ? 
 
 Give them a thousand thousand pities 
 
 And rivers and rivers of tears 
 
 To wash oflF the blood from the cities of Flanders. 
 
 23 
 
ANTWERP 
 
 VI 
 
 This is Charing Cross ; 
 
 It is midnight ; 
 
 There is a great crowd 
 
 And no light. 
 
 A great crowd, all black that hardly whispers 
 
 aloud. 
 Surely, that is a dead woman — a dead mother ! 
 She has a dead face ; 
 She is dressed all in black ; 
 She wanders to the bookstall and back, 
 At the back of the crowd ; 
 And back again and again back, 
 She sways and wanders. 
 
 This is Charing Cross ; 
 It is one o'clock. 
 24 
 
ANTWERP 
 
 There is still a great cloud, and very little light ; 
 
 Immense shafts of shadows over the black crowd 
 
 That hardly whispers aloud. . , . 
 
 And now ! . . . That is another dead jjiother, 
 
 And there is another and another and another . . . 
 
 And little children, all in black, 
 
 All with dead faces, waiting in all the waiting- 
 places. 
 
 Wandering from the doors of the waiting-room 
 
 In the dim gloom. 
 
 These are the women of Flanders. 
 
 They await the lost. 
 
 They await the lost that shall never leave the 
 dock ; 
 
 They await the lost that shall never again come 
 by the train 
 
 To the embraces of all these women with dead 
 faces ; 
 
 25 
 
ANTWERP 
 
 They await the lost who lie dead in trench and 
 
 barrier and foss, 
 In the dark of the night. 
 
 This is Charing Cross ; it is past one of the clock ; 
 There is very little hght. 
 
 There is so much pain. 
 
 L'Envoi. 
 
 And it was for this that they endured this gloom ; 
 
 This October like November, 
 
 That August like a hundred thousand hours, 
 
 And that September, 
 
 A hundred thousand dragging sunlit days. 
 
 And half October like a thousand years. . . . 
 
 Oh poor dears ! 
 
 26 
 
II 
 
 " WHEN THE WORLD WAS IN 
 BUILDING . . ." 
 
 Thank Goodness, the moving is over, 
 They've swept up the straw in the passage 
 And life will begin. . . . 
 This tiny, white, tiled cottage by the bridge ! 
 When we've had tea I will punt you 
 To Paradise for the sugar and onions. . . . 
 We will drift home in the twilight, 
 The trout will be rising. . . . 
 
 27 
 
Ill 
 
 " WHEN THE WORLD CRUMBLED " 
 
 Once there were purple seas — 
 Wide, wide. . . . 
 And myrtle-groves and cyclamen, 
 Above the cliff and the stone pines 
 Where a god watched. . . . 
 
 And thou, oh Lesbian . . . 
 
 Well, thafs all done ! 
 
 28 
 
IV 
 WHAT THE ORDERLY DOG SAW 
 
 A Winter Landscape 
 
 I 
 
 The seven white peacocks against the castle wall 
 In the high trees and the dusk are like tapestry, 
 The sky being orange, the high wall a purple 
 
 barrier 
 The canal, dead silver in the dusk 
 
 And you are far away. 
 Yet I can see infinite miles of mountains. 
 Little lights shining in rows in the dark of them ; 
 Infinite mUes of marshes. 
 Thin wisps of mist, shimmering like blue webs 
 
 ^9 
 
WHAT THE ORDERLY DOG SAW 
 
 Over the dusk of them, great curves and horns 
 
 of sea 
 And dusk and dusk and the little village 
 And you, sitting in the firelight. 
 
 II 
 
 Around me are the two hundred and forty men 
 
 of B Company 
 Mud-coloured. 
 
 Going about their avocations, 
 Resting between their practice of the art 
 Of killing men, 
 
 As I too rest between my practice 
 Of the Art of killing men. 
 Their pipes glow above the mud and their 
 
 mud colour, moving like fireflies beneath 
 
 the trees, 
 I too being mud-coloured 
 30 
 
WHAT THE ORDERLY DOG SAW 
 
 Beneath the trees and the peacocks. 
 When they come up to me in the dusk 
 They start, stiffen and salute, almost invisibly. 
 And the forty-two prisoners from the Battalion 
 
 guardroom 
 Crouch over the tea cans in the shadow of the 
 
 wall. 
 And the bread hunks glimmer, beneath the 
 
 peacocks, 
 And you are far away. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Presently I shall go in, 
 
 I shall write down the names of the forty-two 
 
 Prisoners in the Battalion guardroom 
 
 On fair white foolscap. 
 
 Their names, rank, and regimental numbers, 
 
 Corps, Companies, Punishments and Offences, 
 
 31 
 
WHAT THE ORDERLY DOG SAW 
 
 Remarks, and By whom Confined. 
 Yet in spite of all I shall see only 
 The infinite miles of dark mountain, 
 The infinite miles of dark marshland. 
 Great curves and horns of sea 
 The little village. 
 And you, 
 Sitting in the firelight. 
 
 Cardiff Castle, 1 2/1 2/1 5 
 
 32 
 
V 
 
 THE SILVER MUSIC 
 
 In Chepstow stands a castle ; 
 My love and I went there ; 
 The foxgloves on the wall all heard 
 Her footsteps on the stair. 
 
 The sun was high in heaven, 
 And the perfume on the air 
 Came from purple cat's valerian . . 
 But her footsteps on the stair 
 Made a sound like silver music 
 Thro' the perfume in the air. 
 
 Oh I'm weary for the castle, 
 And I'm weary for the Wye, 
 c 
 
 33 
 
THE SILVER MUSIC 
 
 And the flowered walls are purple 
 And the purple walls are high. 
 And above the cat's valerian 
 The foxgloves brush the sky. 
 But I must plod along the road 
 That leads to Germany. 
 
 And another soldier fellow 
 Shall come courting of my dear 
 And it's I shall not be with her 
 With my lips beside her ear. 
 For it's he shall walk beside her 
 In the perfume of the air 
 To the silver silver music 
 Of her footstep on the stair. 
 
 Cardiff Castle, z/?/^^ 
 
 34 
 
VI 
 
 THE IRON MUSIC 
 
 The French guns roll continuously 
 And our guns, heavy, slow ; 
 Along the Ancre, sinuously. 
 The transport wagons go, 
 And the dust is on the thistles 
 And the larks sing up on high . . . 
 But I see the Golden Valley 
 Down by lintern on the Wye. 
 
 For it's just nine weeks last Sunday 
 Since we took the Chepstow train, 
 And I'm wondering if one day 
 We shall do the like again ; 
 
 35 
 
THE IRON MUSIC 
 
 For the four-point-two's come screaming 
 Thro' the sausages on high ; 
 So there's little use in dreaming 
 How we walked, above the Wye. 
 
 Dust and corpses in the thistles 
 Where the gas-shells burst like snow, 
 And the shrapnel screams and whistles 
 On the Becourt road below, 
 And the High Wood bursts and bristles 
 Where the mine-clouds foul the sky , . . 
 But Vm with you up at Wyndcrojt, 
 Over Tintern on the Wye. 
 
 Albert, 22/7/16 
 
 36 
 
VII 
 
 A SOLIS ORTUS CARDINE . . . 
 
 Oh quiet peoples sleeping bed by bed 
 Beneath grey roof-trees in the glimmering West, 
 We who can see the silver grey and red 
 Rise over No Man's Land — salute your rest. 
 
 Oh quiet comrades, sleeping in the clay 
 Beneath a turmoil you need no more mark. 
 We who have lived through yet another day 
 Salute your graves at setting in of dark. 
 
 And rising from your beds or from the clay 
 You, dead, or far from lines of slain and slayers, 
 Thro' your eternal or your finite day 
 Give us your prayers ! 
 
 Tpres Salient, 6/g/i6 
 
 37 
 
VIII 
 
 THE OLD HOUSES OF FLANDERS 
 
 The old houses of Flanders, 
 
 They watch by the high cathedrals ; 
 
 They overtop the high town-halls ; 
 
 They have eyes, mournful, tolerant and sardonic, 
 
 for the ways of men 
 In the high, white, tiled gables. 
 
 The rain and the night have settled down on 
 
 Flanders ; 
 It is all wet darkness ; you can see nothing. 
 
 Then those old eyes, mournful, tolerant and 
 
 sardonic, 
 38 
 
THE OLD HOUSES OF FLANDERS 
 
 Look at great, sudden, red lights, 
 Look upon the shades of the cathedrals ; 
 And the golden rods of the illuminated rain, 
 For a second. . . . 
 
 And those old eyes, 
 
 Very old eyes that have watched the ways of men 
 
 for generations, 
 Close for ever. 
 
 The high, white shoulders of the gables 
 Slouch together for a consultation. 
 Slant drunkenly over in the lea of the flaming 
 
 cathedrals. 
 
 They are no more, the old houses of Flanders. 
 
 39 
 
IX 
 
 ALBADE 
 
 The little girls are singing, " Rin / Ron ! Rin ! " 
 The matin bell is ringing " Din ! Don / Din ! " 
 Thirty little girls, while it rains and shrapnel 
 
 skirls 
 By the playground where the chapel bells are 
 
 ringing. 
 
 The stout old nuns are walking, 
 Dance, little girls, beneath the din ! 
 The four-point-ones are talking, 
 Form up, little girls, the school is in ! 
 Seven stout old nuns and fourteen naval guns 
 All around the playground go on talking. 
 40 
 
ALBADE 
 
 And, my darling, you are getting out of bed 
 Where the seven angels watched around your 
 
 head, 
 With no shrapnel and no Huns 
 And no nuns or four-point-ones . . . 
 Getting up to catch the train. 
 Coming back to tea again 
 When the Angelus is sounding to the plain 
 And the statue shells are coming from the plain 
 And the little girls have trotted home again 
 In the rain. . . . 
 
 Darling, darling, say one funny prayer again 
 For you true love who is waking in the rain. 
 
 The Salient, 7/g/i6 
 
 41 
 
X 
 
 CLAIR DE LUNE 
 
 I 
 
 I SHOULD like to imagine 
 
 A moonlight in which there would be no machine- 
 guns ! 
 
 For, it is possible 
 
 To come out of a trench or a hut or a tent or a 
 
 church all in ruins : 
 To see the black perspective of long avenues 
 AH silent. 
 
 The white strips of sky 
 At the sides, cut by the poplar trunks : 
 42 
 
CLAIR DE LUNE 
 
 The white strips of sky 
 
 Above, diminishing — 
 
 The silence and blackness of the avenue 
 
 Enclosed by immensities of space 
 
 Spreading away 
 
 Over No Man's Land. . . . 
 
 For a minute . . . 
 For ten . . . 
 
 There will be no star shells 
 But the untroubled stars, 
 There wiU be no Very light 
 But the light of the quiet moon 
 Like a swan. 
 And silence. . . . 
 
 Then, far away to the right thro' the moonbeams 
 " Wukka Wukka " will go the machine-guns, 
 
 43 
 
CLAIR DE LUNE 
 
 And, far away to the left 
 
 Wukka Wukka. 
 
 And sharply, 
 
 Wuk . . . JVuk. . . and then silence 
 
 For a space in the clear of the moon. 
 
 II 
 
 I should like to imagine 
 
 A moonlight in which the machine-guns of trouble 
 
 WiU be silent. . . . 
 
 Do you remember, my dear. 
 
 Long ago, on the cliffs, in the moonlight, 
 
 Looking over to Flatholme 
 
 We sat. . . . Long ago ! . . . 
 
 And the things that you told me . . . 
 
 Little things in the clear of the moon, 
 
 The little, sad things of a life. . . . 
 
 44 
 
CLAIR DE LUNE 
 
 We shall do it again 
 
 FuU surely, 
 
 Sitting still, looking over at Flatholme. 
 
 Then, far away to the right 
 
 Shall sound the Machine Guns of trouble 
 
 Wukka-wukka ! 
 
 And, far away to the left, under Flatholme, 
 
 Wukka-wuk / . . . 
 
 I wonder, my dear, can you stick it ? 
 As we should say : " Stick it, the Welch ! " 
 In the dark of the moon. 
 Going over. . . . 
 
 Nieppe, near Plugstreet, 1 7/9/1 6 
 
 45 
 
XI 
 
 " ONE DAY'S LIST " 
 
 [Killed. — "Second Lieutenants unless otherwise 
 stated." 
 
 Amott, E. E.— Welch Regt. 
 Jones, E. B. D.— Welch Regt. 
 Morris, J. H.— Welch Regt. 
 And 270 other ranks, Welch Regt. 
 
 Died of Wounds. 
 Knapp, O. R. — 2nd Lieut. Welch Regt.]. 
 
 My dears . . . 
 
 The rain drips down on Rouen Town 
 
 The leaves drip down 
 
 46 
 
"ONE DAY'S LIST" 
 
 And so the mud 
 Turns orange brown. . . . 
 A Zeppelin, we read, has been brought down. 
 And the obscure brown 
 Populace of London town 
 Make a shout of it, 
 Clamouring for blood 
 And reductions in the price of food . . . 
 But 70U — at least — are out of it. . . . 
 
 Poor httle Arnott — poor little lad . . . 
 
 And poor old Knapp, 
 
 Of whom once I borrowed a map — and never 
 
 returned it. 
 And Morris and Jones . . . and all the rest of 
 
 the Welch, 
 So many gone in the twenty-four hours of a 
 
 day . . . 
 
 47 
 
"ONE DAY'S LIST" 
 
 One wonders how one can stay . . . 
 
 One wonders. . . . 
 
 For the papers are full of Kelch, 
 
 Finding rubbishy news to make a shout of it, 
 
 But you at least are out of it. 
 
 One wonders how you died . . . 
 
 The mine thunders 
 
 Still where you stuck by Welch AUey and 
 
 turned it. . . . 
 The mine thunders 
 
 Upwards — and branches of trees, mud, and stone, 
 Skulls, limbs, rats, thistles, the clips 
 Of cartridges, beef tins and wire 
 Belch 
 
 To the heavens in fire 
 From the Hps 
 
 Of the craters where doubtless you died, 
 48 
 
"ONE DAY'S LIST" 
 
 With the Cheshires and Wiltshires and Welch 
 Side by side. 
 
 One wonders why you died, 
 
 Why were we in it ? . . . 
 
 At home we were late on parades, 
 
 Seldom there to the minute, 
 
 When " B." were out on Cathays 
 
 We didn't get much of the lectures into the 
 
 brain. . . . 
 We talked a good deal about girls. 
 We could all tell a story 
 At something past something, Ack Emma ! 
 
 But why ? why ? Why were we there from the 
 
 Aisne to Mametz, 
 Well — there's a dilemma. . . . 
 
 49 
 
"ONE DAY'S LIST" 
 
 For we never talked of glory, 
 
 We each thought a lot of one girl, 
 
 And waited most days for hours in the rain 
 
 Till she came : 
 
 But we never talked of Fame. . . . 
 
 It is very difficult to believe 
 
 You need never again 
 
 Put in for week-end leave, 
 
 Or get vouchers for the i.io train 
 
 From Cardiff to London. . . . 
 
 But so much has the Hun done 
 
 In the way of achievements. 
 
 And when I think of all the bereavements 
 
 Of your mothers and fathers and sweethearts and 
 
 wives and homes in the West, 
 And the paths between the willows waiting for 
 
 your tread, 
 
 5° 
 
"ONE DAY'S LIST" 
 
 And the white pillows 
 
 Waiting each for a head, 
 
 Well . . . they may go to rest ! 
 
 And, God help me, if you meet a Hun 
 In Heaven, I bet you will say, " Well done, 
 You fought like mad lions in nets 
 Down by Mametz." 
 
 But we who remain shall grow old, 
 We shall know the cold 
 Of cheerless 
 
 Winter and the rain of Autumn and the sting 
 Of poverty, of love despised and of disgraces, 
 And mirrors showing stained and ageing faces, 
 And the long ranges of comfortless years 
 And the long^gamut of human fears. . . . 
 But, for you, it shall be forever spring, 
 
 SI 
 
"ONE DAY'S LIST" 
 
 And only you shall be forever fearless, 
 
 And only you have white, straight, tireless limbs, 
 
 And only you, where the water-lily swims 
 
 Shall walk along the pathways, thro' the willows 
 
 Of your west. 
 
 You who went West, 
 
 And only you on silvery twilight pillows 
 
 Shall take your rest 
 
 In the soft sweet glooms 
 
 Of twilight rooms. . . . 
 
 No. 2 Red Cross Hospital, 
 Rouen, 7/1/17 
 
 52 
 
XII 
 
 ONE LAST PRAYER 
 
 Let me wait, my dear, 
 
 One more day, 
 
 Let me linger near, 
 
 Let me stay. 
 
 Do not bar the gate or draw the blind 
 
 Or lock the door that yields, 
 
 Dear, be kind ! 
 
 I have only you beneath the skies 
 
 To rest my eyes 
 
 From the cruel green of the fields 
 
 And the cold, white seas 
 
 And the weary hills 
 
 S3 
 
ONE LAST PRAYER 
 
 And the naked trees. 
 
 I have known the hundred ills 
 
 Of the hated wars. 
 
 Do not close the bars, 
 
 Or draw the blind. 
 
 I have only you beneath the stars : 
 
 Dear, be kind ! 
 
 17/12/17 
 
 54 
 
XIII 
 
 REGIMENTAL RECORDS 
 
 I 
 
 Pte. Barnes 
 
 He said : " I love her for her sense 
 
 And for her quiet innocence, 
 
 And since she bears without complaint 
 
 An anxious life of toil and care 
 
 As if she were a fireside saint. . . , 
 
 " And so her quiet eyes ensnare 
 
 My eyes all day and fill my sense 
 
 And take 
 
 My thoughts all day away from other things ; 
 
 and keep 
 Me, when I should be fast asleep. 
 Awake ! " 
 
 S5 
 
REGIMENTAL RECORDS 
 
 II 
 
 L.-Cpl. Selfe 
 
 . . . And when she went his patience broke 
 And his outrageous, restless spirit woke 
 To a sort of mutiny against Fate . . . 
 
 He'd soak and soak 
 For nights. And he went courting a bad girl 
 Who sponged on him and kept him in a whirl 
 And brought 
 
 Him into many questionable homes. 
 It's that way ruin comes. 
 So we all thought 
 
 He'd go to Hell — or certainly be broke . . . 
 But he got off with just an inch to spare — 
 The breadth of a hair ! 
 
 56 
 
REGIMENTAL RECORDS 
 
 III 
 
 Cpl. Bavler 
 
 {Corporal in charge oj Regimental Gardens) 
 
 He thought : " If she would be my wife, 
 And live where I do set and class 
 My plants : when I was not on duty, 
 We'd lead a pleasant, quiet life. 
 For I'd take pleasure in her beauty, 
 StrolUng amongst the plants in order 
 And stopping by the potherb border." 
 
 18-21/12/17 
 
 57 
 
XIV 
 FOOTSLOGGERS 
 
 To C. F. G. M. 
 1 
 What is love of one's land ? . . . 
 
 I don't know very well. 
 It is something that sleeps 
 For a year — for a day — 
 For a month — something that keeps 
 Very hidden and quiet and still 
 And then takes 
 The quiet heart like a wave, 
 The quiet brain like a spell, 
 The quiet will 
 
 Like a tornado ; and that shakes 
 The whole of the soul. 
 58 
 
FOOTSLOGGERS 
 
 II 
 
 It is omnipotent like love ; 
 
 It is deep and quiet as the grave 
 
 And it awakes 
 
 Like a flame, like a madness, 
 
 Like the great passion of your life. 
 
 The cold keenness of a tempered knife, 
 
 The great gladness of a wedding day, 
 
 The austerity of monks who wake to pray 
 
 In the dim light, 
 
 Who pray 
 
 In the darkling grove. 
 
 All these and a great belief in what we deem the 
 
 right 
 Creeping upon us like the overwhelming sand, 
 Driven by a December gale, 
 Make up the love of one's land. 
 
 59 
 
FOOTSLOGGERS 
 
 III 
 
 But I ask you this : 
 About the middle of my first Last Leave, 
 I stood on a kerb in the pitch of the night 
 Waiting for buses that didn't come 
 To take me home. 
 
 That was in Paddington. 
 The soot-black night was over one like velvet : 
 And one was very alone- — so very alone 
 In the velvet cloak of the night. 
 
 Like a lady's skirt, 
 A dim, diaphonous cone of white, the rays 
 Of a shaded street lamp, close at hand, existed. 
 And there was nothing but vileness it could show, 
 Vile, paUid faces drifted through, chalk white ; 
 Vile alcoholic voices in the ear, vile fumes 
 From the filthy pavements . . . vileness ! 
 60 
 
FOOTSLOGGERS 
 
 And one thought 
 " In three days' time we enter the unknown : 
 And this is what we die for ! " 
 
 For, mind you, 
 It isn't just a Tube ride, going to France ! 
 It sets ironic unaccustomed minds 
 At work even in the sentimental . . . 
 
 StiU 
 All that is in the contract. 
 
 IV 
 
 Who of us 
 But has, deep down in the heart and deep in the 
 
 brain 
 The m,emory of odd moments : memories 
 Of huge assemblies chanting in the night 
 At palace gates : of drafts going off in the rain 
 
 6i 
 
FOOTSLOGGERS 
 
 To shaken music : or the silken flutter 
 
 Of silent, ceremonial parades, 
 
 In the sunlight, when you stand so stiff to 
 
 attention, 
 That you never see but only know they are there — 
 The regimental colours — silken, a-flutter 
 Azure and gold and vermilion against the sky : 
 The sacred finery of banded hearts 
 Of generations. . . . 
 
 And memories 
 When just for moments, landscapes out in France 
 Looked so like English downlands that the heart 
 Checked and stood still. . . . 
 
 Or then, the song and dance 
 Of Battalion concerts, in the shafts of light 
 From smoky lamps : the lines of queer, warped 
 
 faces 
 Of men that now are dead : faces lit up 
 62 
 
FOOTSLOGGERS 
 
 By inarticulate minds at sugary chords 
 
 From the vamping pianist beneath the bunting : 
 
 " Until the boys come home ! " we sing. And 
 
 fumes 
 Of wet humanity, soaked uniforms, 
 Wet flooring, smoking lamps, fill cubical 
 And wooden-walled spaces, brown, all brown. 
 With the light-sucking hue of the khaki. . . . 
 
 And the rain 
 Frets on the pitchpine of the felted roof 
 Like women's fingers beating on a door 
 Calling " Come Home " . . . " Come Home " 
 Down the long trail beneath the silent moon . . . 
 Who never shall come. . . . 
 
 And we stand up to sing 
 " Hen zvladjy nadhau. . . ." 
 
 Dearest,- never one 
 Of your caresses, dearest in the world, 
 
 63 
 
FOOTSLOGGERS 
 
 Shall interpenetrate the flesh of one's flesh, 
 
 The breath of the lungs, sight of the eyes, or the 
 
 heart, 
 Like that sad, harsh anthem in the rained-on huts 
 Of our own men . . . 
 That too is in the contract. . . . 
 
 V 
 
 Well, of course 
 One loves one's men. One takes a mort of trouble 
 To get them spick and span upon parades : 
 You straf them, slang them, mediate between 
 Their wives and loves, and you inspect their 
 
 toe-nails 
 And wangle leaves for them from the Adjutant 
 Until your Company office is your home 
 And all your mind. . . . 
 
 This is the way it goes : 
 First your Platoon and then your Company, 
 64 
 
FOOTSLOGGERS 
 
 Then the Battalion, then Brigade, Division, 
 And the whole B.E.F. in France . . . and then 
 Our Land, with its burden of civilians, 
 Who take it out of us as little dogs 
 Worry Newfoundlands. . . . 
 
 So, in the Flanders mud, 
 We bear the State upon our rain-soaked backs. 
 Breathe life into the State from our rattling lungs, 
 Anoint the State with the rivulets of sweat 
 From our tin helmets. 
 
 And so, in years to come 
 The State shall take the semblance of Britannia, 
 Up-borne, deep-bosomed, with anointed limbs . . . 
 Like the back of a penny. 
 
 VI 
 
 For I do not think 
 We ever took much stock in that Britannia 
 
 E 6$ 
 
FOOTSLOGGERS 
 
 On the long French roads, or even on parades, 
 Or thought overmuch of Nelson or of Minden, 
 Or even the old traditions. . . . 
 
 I don't know, 
 In the breathless rush that it is of parades and 
 
 drills, 
 Of digging at the double and strafes and 
 
 fatigues, 
 These figures grqw dimned and lost : 
 Doubtless we too, we too, when the years have 
 
 receded 
 Shall look like the heroes of Hellas, upon a 
 
 frieze. 
 White-limbed and buoyant and passing the flame 
 
 of the torches 
 From hand to hand. . . . But to-day it's mud 
 
 to the knees 
 And khaki and khaki and khaki. . . . 
 
 66 
 
FOOTSLOGGERS 
 
 And the love of one's land 
 Very quiet and hidden and still. . . . And again 
 I don't know, though I've pondered the matter 
 
 for years 
 Since the war began. . . . But I never had much 
 
 brain. . . . 
 
 VII 
 
 I don't know if you know the i.io train 
 From Cardiff : 
 
 Well, fourteen of us together 
 Went up from Cardiff in the summer weather 
 At the time of the July push. 
 It's a very good train ; 
 It runs with hardly a jar and never a stop 
 After Newport, until you get down 
 In London Town. 
 
 67 
 
FOOTSLOGGERS 
 
 It goes with a solemn, smooth rush 
 
 Across the counties and over the shires, 
 
 Right over England past farmsteads and byres ; 
 
 It bubbles with conversation, 
 
 Being the West going to the East : 
 
 The pick of the rich of the West in a bunch, 
 
 Half of the wealth of the Nation, 
 
 With heads together, buzzing of local topics, 
 
 Of bankrupts and strikes, divorces and marriages ; 
 
 And, after Newport, you get your lunch, 
 
 In the long, light, gently swaying carriages 
 
 As the miles flash by, 
 
 And fields and flowers 
 
 Flash by 
 
 Under the high sky 
 
 Where the great cloud towers 
 
 Above the tranquil downs 
 
 And the tranquil towns, 
 
 68 
 
FOOTSLOGGERS 
 
 VIII 
 
 And the corks pop 
 
 And the wines of France 
 
 Bring in radiance ; 
 
 And spice from the tropics 
 
 Flavours fowl from the Steppes 
 
 And meat from the States, 
 
 And the talk buzzes on like bees round the skeps, 
 
 And the potentates 
 
 Of the mines and the docks 
 
 Drink delicate hocks . . . 
 
 Ah, proud and generous civilisation. . . . 
 
 IX 
 
 For me, going out to France 
 Is like the exhaustion of dawn 
 After a dance. . . . 
 
 69 
 
FOOTSLOGGERS 
 
 You have rushed around to get your money, 
 
 To get your revolver, complete your equipment ; 
 
 You have had your moments, sweeter — ah, sweeter 
 
 than honey ; 
 You have got your valise all ready for shipment : 
 You have gone to confession and wangled your 
 
 blessing, 
 You have bought your air-pillow and sevsTi in 
 
 your coat 
 A pocket to hold your first field-dressing, 
 And you've paid the leech who bled you, the 
 
 vampire . . . 
 And you've been to the Theatre and the Empire, 
 And you've bidden good-bye to the band and the 
 
 goat . . . 
 And, like a ship that floats free of her berth, 
 There's nothing that holds you now to the 
 
 earth, 
 70 
 
FOOTSLOGGERS 
 
 And you're near enough to a yawn. • . . 
 
 " Good luck " and " Good-bye " it has been, 
 
 and " So long, old chap " 
 " Cheerio : you'll be back in a month " — " You'll 
 
 have driven the Huns off the map." 
 And one little pressure of the hand 
 From the thing you love next to the love of the 
 
 land, 
 Since you leave her, out of love of your land. . . . 
 But that little, long, gentle and eloquent pressure 
 Shall go with you under the whine of the 
 
 shells. 
 Into the mire and the stress. 
 Into the seven hundred hells. 
 Until you come down on your stretcher 
 To the CCS. . . . 
 And back to Blighty again — 
 Or until you go under the sod. 
 
 71 
 
FOOTSLOGGERS 
 
 But, in the i.io train, 
 
 Running between the green and the grain, 
 
 Something like the peace of God 
 
 Descended over the hum and the drone 
 
 Of the wheels and the wine and the buzz of the 
 
 talk. 
 And one thought : 
 
 " In two days' time we enter the Unknown, 
 And this is what we die for ! " 
 And thro' the square 
 Of glass 
 
 At my elbow, as limpid as air, 
 I watched our England pass . . . 
 The great downs moving slowly, 
 Far away, 
 
 The farmsteads quiet and lowly, 
 7* 
 
FOOTSLOGGERS 
 
 Passing away ; 
 
 The fields newly mown 
 
 With the swathes of hay, 
 
 And the wheat just beginning to brown, 
 
 Whirling away. . . . 
 
 And I thought : 
 
 " In two days' time we enter the Unknown, 
 
 But this is what we die for. ... As we ought. . . ." 
 
 For it is for the sake of the wolds and the wealds 
 
 That we die, 
 
 And for the sake of the quiet fields, 
 
 And the path through the stackyard gate . . . 
 
 That these may be inviolate, 
 
 And know no tread save those of the herds and 
 
 the hinds, 
 And that the south-west winds 
 Blow on no forehead save of those that toil 
 On our suave and hallowed soil, 
 
 73 
 
FOOTSLOGGERS 
 
 And that deep peace may rest 
 
 Upon that quiet breast. . . . 
 
 It is because our land is beautiful and green and 
 
 comely, 
 Because our farms are quiet and thatched and 
 
 homely, 
 Because the trout stream dimples by the willow, 
 Because the water-lilies float upon the ponds. 
 And on Eston Hill the delicate, waving fronds 
 Of the bracken put forth, where the white clouds 
 
 are flying, 
 That we shall endure the swift, sharp torture of 
 
 dying. 
 Or the humiliation of not dying, 
 Where the gas cloud wanders 
 Over the fields of Flanders, 
 Or the sun squanders 
 His radiance 
 
 74 
 
FOOTSLOGGERS 
 
 And the midges dance 
 Their day-long life away- 
 Over the green and the grey 
 Of the fields of France. . . . 
 And maybe we shall never again 
 Plod thro' our mire and the rain 
 Of the winter gloaming, 
 And maybe we shall never again 
 See the long, white, foaming 
 Breakers pour up our strand. . . . 
 But we have been borne across this land, 
 And we have felt this spell. . . . 
 And, for the rest. 
 
 l'envoi 
 
 What is love of one's land ? 
 
 Ah, we know very well 
 It is something that sleeps for a year, for a day, 
 
 75 
 
FOOTSLOGGERS 
 
 For a month, something that keeps 
 
 Very hidden and quiet and still, 
 
 And then takes 
 
 The quiet heart like a waive, 
 
 The quiet brain like a spell. 
 
 The quiet will 
 
 Like a tornado, and that shakes 
 
 The whole being and soul . . . 
 
 Aye, the whole of the soul. 
 
 24/12/17-1/1/18 
 
 76 
 
XV 
 
 THAT EXPLOIT OF YOURS 
 
 I MEET two soldiers sometimes here in Hell 
 The one, with a tear in the seat of his red panta- 
 loons 
 Was stuck by a pitchfork, 
 Climbing a wall to steal apples. 
 
 The second has a seeming silver helmet. 
 
 Having died from the fall of his horse on some 
 
 tram-lines 
 In Dortmund. 
 
 These two 
 
 Meeting in the vaulted and vaporous caverns of 
 
 Hell 
 Exclaim always in identical tones : 
 
 V 
 
THAT EXPLOIT OF YOURS 
 
 " I at least have done my duty to Society and the 
 
 Fatherland ! " 
 It is strange how the cliche prevails . . . 
 For I will bet my hat that you who sent me here 
 
 toHeU 
 Are saying the selfsame words at this very moment 
 Concerning that exploit of yours. 
 
 78 
 
XVI 
 
 ON HEAVEN 
 
 To V. H., who asked for a working Heaven 
 
 I 
 That day the sunlight lay on the farms ; 
 On the morrow the bitter frost that there was ! 
 That night my young love lay in my arms, 
 The morrow how bitter it was ! 
 
 And because she is very tall and quaint 
 
 And golden, like a quattrocento saint, 
 
 I desire to write about Heaven ; 
 
 To tell you the shape and the ways of it, 
 
 And the joys and the toil in the maze of it, 
 
 For these there must be in Heaven, 
 
 Even in Heaven ! 
 
 79 
 
ON HEAVEN 
 
 For God is a good man, God is a kind man, 
 And God's a good brother, and God is no blind 
 
 man, 
 And God is our father. 
 
 I will tell you how this thing began : 
 How I waited in a little town near Lyons many 
 
 years, 
 And yet knew nothing of passing time, or of her 
 
 tears. 
 But, for nine slow years, lounged away at my table 
 
 in the shadowy sunlit square 
 Where the small cafes are. 
 
 The Place is small and shaded by great planes, 
 
 Over a rather human monument 
 
 Set up to Louis Dixhuit in the year 
 
 Eighteen fourteen ; a funny thing with dolphins 
 
 80 
 
ON HEAVEN 
 
 About a pyramid of green-dripped, sordid stone. 
 
 But the enormous, monumental planes 
 
 Shade it all in, and in the flecks of sun 
 
 Sit market women. There's a paper shop 
 
 Painted all blue, a shipping agency, 
 
 Three or four cafes ; dank, dark colonnades 
 
 Of an eighteen-forty Mairie. I'd no wish 
 
 To wait for her where it was picturesque, 
 
 Or ancient or historic, or to love 
 
 Over well any place in the land before she came 
 
 And loved it too. I didn't even go 
 
 To Lyons for the opera ; Aries for the bulls, 
 
 Or Avignon for glimpses of the Rhone. 
 
 Not even to Beaucaire ! I sat about 
 
 And played long games of dominoes with the 
 
 viaire. 
 Or passing commis-voyageurs. And so 
 I sat and watched the trams come in, and read 
 
 F 8l 
 
ON HEAVEN 
 
 The Libre Parole and sipped the thin, fresh wine 
 Thev call Piquette, and got to know the people, 
 The kindly, southern people. . . , 
 
 Until, when the years were over, she came in her 
 
 swift red car, 
 Shooting out past a tram ; and she slowed and 
 
 stopped and lighted absently down, 
 A little dazed, in the heart of the town ; 
 And nodded imperceptibly. 
 With a sideways look at me. 
 
 So our days here began. 
 
 And the wrinkled old woman who keeps the cafe, 
 
 And the man 
 
 Who sells the Libre Parole, 
 
 And the sleepy gendarme, 
 
 82 
 
ON HEAVEN 
 
 And the iaX Jacteur who dehvers letters only in 
 
 the shady, 
 Pleasanter kind of streets ; 
 And the boy I often gave a penny, 
 And the maire himself, and the little girl who 
 
 loves toffee 
 And me because I have given her many sweets ; 
 And the one-eyed, droll 
 Bookseller of the rue Grand de Provence, — 
 Chancing to be going home to bed, 
 Smiled with their kindly, fresh benevolence, 
 Because they knew I had waited for a lady 
 Who should come in a swift, red, English car, 
 To the square where the little cafes are. 
 And the old, old woman touched me on the wrist 
 With a wrinkled finger. 
 And said : " Why do you linger ? — 
 Too many kisses can never be kissed ! 
 
 83 
 
ON HEAVEN 
 
 And comfort her — nobody here will think harm- 
 Take her instantly to your arm ! 
 It is a little strange, you know, to your dear, 
 To be dead I " 
 
 But one is English, 
 
 Though one be never so much of a ghost ; 
 
 And if most of your life have been spent in the 
 
 craze to relinquish 
 What you want most, 
 You will go on relinquishing, 
 You will go on vanquishing 
 Human longings, even 
 In Heaven. 
 
 God ! You will have forgotten what the rest of 
 
 the world is on fire for — 
 The madness of desire for the long and quiet 
 
 embrace, 
 84 
 
ON HEAVEN 
 
 The coming nearer of a tear-wet face ; 
 
 Forgotten the desire to slake 
 
 The thirst, and the long, slow ache, 
 
 And to interlace 
 
 Lash with lash, lip with lip, limb with limb, and 
 
 the fingers of the hand with the hand 
 And . . . 
 
 You will have forgotten . . . 
 
 But they will all awake ; 
 Aye, all of them shall awaken 
 In this dear place. 
 And all that then we took 
 Of all that we might have taken, 
 Was that one embracing look, 
 Coursing over features, over limbs, between eyes, 
 
 a making sure, and a long sigh, 
 Having the tranquillity 
 
 85 
 
ON HEAVEN 
 
 Of trees unshaken, 
 
 And the softness of sweet tears, 
 
 And the clearness of a clear brook 
 
 To wash away past years. 
 
 (For that too is the quality of Heaven, 
 
 That you are conscious always of great pain 
 
 Only when it is over 
 
 And shall not come again. 
 
 Thank God, thank God, it shall not come again, 
 
 Though your eyes be never so wet with the tears 
 
 Of many years !) 
 
 II 
 
 And so she stood a moment by the door 
 Of the long, red car. Royally she stepped down. 
 Settling on one long foot and leaning back 
 Amongst her russet furs. And she looked 
 
 round . . . 
 86 
 
ON HEAVEN 
 
 Of course it must be strange to come from 
 
 England 
 Straight into Heaven. You must take it in, 
 Slowly, for a long instant, with some fear . . . 
 Now that affiche, in orange, on the kiosque : 
 " Seven Spanish bulls will fight on Sunday next 
 At Aries, in the arena "... Well, it's strange 
 Till you get used to our ways. And, on the 
 
 Mairie, 
 The untidy poster telling of the concours 
 De vers de sole, of silkworms. The cocoons 
 Pile, yellow, all across the little Places 
 Of ninety townships in the environs 
 Of Lyons, the city famous for her silks. 
 What if she's pale ? It must be more than 
 
 strange, 
 After these years, to come out here from 
 
 England 
 
 87 
 
ON HEAVEN 
 
 To a strange place, to the stretched-out arms of 
 
 me, 
 A man never fully known, only divined. 
 Loved, guessed at, pledged to, in your Sussex mud. 
 Amongst the frost-bound farms by the yeasty sea. 
 Oh, the long look ; the long, long searching look ! 
 And how my heart beat ! 
 
 Well, you see, in England 
 She had a husband. And four families — 
 His, hers, mine, and another woman's too — 
 Would have gone crazy. And, with all the rest, 
 Eight parents, and the children, seven aunts 
 And sixteen uncles and a grandmother. 
 There were, besides, our names, a few real friends, 
 And the decencies of life. A monstrous heap ! 
 They made a monstrous heap. I've lain awake 
 Whole aching nights to tot the figures up ! 
 Heap after heaps, of complications, griefs, 
 88 
 
ON HEAVEN 
 
 Worries, tongue-clackings, nonsenses and shame 
 
 For not making good. You see the coil there was ! 
 
 And the poor strained fibres of our tortured 
 brains, 
 
 And the voice that called from depth in her to 
 depth 
 
 In me . . . my God, in the dreadful nights, 
 
 Through the roar of the great black winds, through 
 the sound of the sea ! 
 
 Oh agony ! Agony ! From out my breast 
 
 It called whilst the dark house slept, and stair- 
 heads creaked ; 
 
 From within my breast it screamed and made no 
 sound ; 
 
 And wailed. . . . And made no sound. 
 
 And howled like the damned. ... No sound ! 
 No sound ! 
 
 Only the roar of the wind, the sound of the sea, 
 
 89 
 
ON HEAVEN 
 
 The tick of the clock. . . . 
 
 And our two voices, noiseless through the dark. 
 
 OGod! OGod! 
 
 (That night my young love lay in my arms. . , . 
 
 There was a bitter frost lay on the farms 
 
 In England, by the shiver 
 
 And the crawling of the tide ; 
 
 By the broken silver of the English Channel, 
 
 Beneath the aged moon that watched alone — 
 
 Poor, dreary, lonely old moon to have to watch 
 
 alone, 
 Over the dreary beaches mantled with ancient 
 
 foam 
 Like shrunken flannel ; 
 
 The moon, an intent, pale face, looking down 
 Over the English Channel. 
 90 
 
ON HEAVEN 
 
 But soft and warm She lay in the crook of my arm, 
 And came to no harm since we had come quietly 
 
 home 
 Even to Heaven ; 
 
 Which is situate in a little old town 
 Not very far from the side of the Rhone, 
 That mighty river 
 That is, just there by the Crau, in the lower 
 
 reaches, 
 Far wider than the Channel.) 
 
 But, in the market place of the other little town, 
 Where the Rhone is a narrower, greener affair, 
 When she had looked at me, she beckoned with 
 
 her long white hand, 
 A little languidly, since it is a strain, if a blessed 
 
 strain, to have just died. 
 And, going back again, 
 
 1 91 
 
ON HEAVEN 
 
 Into the long, red, English racing car, 
 
 Made room for me amongst the furs at her side. 
 
 And we moved away from the kind looks of the 
 
 kindly people 
 Into the wine of the hurrying air. 
 And very soon even the tall grey steeple 
 Of Lyons cathedral behind us grew little and 
 
 far 
 And then was no more there. . . . 
 And, thank God, we had nothing any more to 
 
 think of, 
 And thank God, we had nothing any more to 
 
 talk of ; 
 Unless, as it chanced, the flashing silver stalk of 
 
 the pampas 
 Growing down to the brink of the Rhone, 
 On the lawn of a little chateau, giving onto the 
 
 river. 
 92 
 
ON HEAVEN 
 
 And we were alone, alone, alone. . . . 
 At last alone. . . . 
 
 The poplars on the hill-crests go marching rank 
 
 on rank, 
 And far away to the left, like a pyramid, marches 
 
 the ghost of Mont Blanc. 
 There are vines and vines and vines, all down to 
 
 the river bank. 
 There will be a castle here, 
 And an abbey there ; 
 And huge quarries and a long white farm, 
 With long thatched barns and a long wine shed, 
 As we ran alone, all down the Rhone. 
 
 And that day there was no puncturing of the tyres 
 
 to fear ; 
 And no trouble at all with the engine and gear ; 
 
 93 
 
ON HEAVEN 
 
 Smoothly and softly we ran between the great 
 
 poplar alley 
 All down the valley of the Rhone. 
 For the dear, good God knew how we needed rest 
 
 and to be alone. 
 But, on other days, just as you must have perfect 
 
 shadows to make perfect Rembrandts, 
 He shall afflict us with little lets and hindrances 
 
 of His own 
 Devising — just to let us be glad that we are 
 
 dead . . . 
 Just for remembrance. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Hard by the castle of God in the Alpilles, 
 In the eternal stone of the Alpilles, 
 There's this little old town, walled round by the 
 old, grey gardens. . . . 
 
 94 
 
ON HEAVEN 
 
 There were never such olives as grovir in the 
 
 gardens of God, 
 The green-grey trees, the v\rardens of agony 
 And failure of gods. 
 
 Of hatred and faith, of truth, of treachery 
 They whisper ; they whisper that none of the 
 
 living prevail ; 
 They whirl in the great mistral over the white, 
 
 dry sods, 
 Like hair blown back from white foreheads in the 
 
 enormous gale 
 Up to the castle walls of God. . . . 
 
 But, in the town that's our home, 
 Once you are past the wall, 
 Amongst the trunks of the planes, 
 Though they roar never so mightily overhead in 
 the day, 
 
 95 
 
ON HEAVEN 
 
 All this tumult is quieted down, and all 
 
 The windows stand open because of the heat of 
 
 the night 
 That shall come. 
 And, from each little window, shines in the 
 
 twilight a light, 
 And, beneath the eternal planes 
 With the huge, gnarled trunks that were aged 
 
 and grey 
 At the creation of Time, 
 The Chinese lanthorns, hung out at the doors of 
 
 hotels, 
 Shimmering in the dusk, here on an orange tree, 
 
 there on a sweet-scented lime, 
 There on a golden inscription : " Hotel of the 
 
 Three Holy BeUs." 
 Or " Hotel Sublime," or " Inn of the Real Good 
 
 Will." 
 96 
 
ON HEAVEN 
 
 And, yes, it is very warm and still, 
 
 And all the world is afoot after the heat of the day, 
 
 In the cool of the even in Heaven. . . . 
 
 And it is here that I have brought my dear to pay 
 
 her all that I owed her, 
 Amidst this crowd, with the soft voices, the soft 
 
 footfalls, the rejoicing laughter. 
 And after the. twilight there falls such a warm, 
 
 soft darkness. 
 And there will come stealing under the planes a 
 
 drowsy odour, 
 Compounded all of cyclamen, of oranges, or 
 
 rosemary and bay. 
 To take the remembrance of the toil of the day away. 
 
 So we sat at a little table, under an immense plane, 
 And we remembered again 
 The blisters and foments 
 
 G 97 
 
ON HEAVEN 
 
 And terrible harassments of the tired brain, 
 
 The cold and the frost and the pain, 
 
 As if we were looking at a picture and saying : 
 
 " This is true ! 
 Why this is a truly painted 
 Rendering of that street where — ^you remember ? 
 
 — I fainted." 
 And we remembered again 
 Tranquilly, our poor few tranquil moments. 
 The falling of the sunlight through the panes. 
 The flutter forever in the chimney of the quiet flame, 
 The mutter of our two poor tortured voices, 
 
 always a-whisper 
 And the endless nights when I would cry out, 
 
 running through all the gamut of misery, 
 
 even to a lisp, her name ; 
 And we remembered our kisses, nine, maybe, or 
 
 eleven — 
 98 
 
ON HEAVEN 
 
 If you count two that I gave and she did not give 
 again. 
 
 And always the crowd drifted by in the cool of 
 
 the even, 
 And we saw the faces of friends, 
 And the faces of those to whom one day we must 
 
 make amends, 
 Smiling in welcome. 
 And I said : " On another day — 
 And such a day may well come soon — 
 We will play dominoes with Dick and Evelyn and 
 
 Frances 
 For a whole afternoon. 
 And, in the time to come, Genee 
 Shall dance for us, fluttering over the ground as 
 
 the sunlight dances." 
 
 And ArUsiennes with the beautiful faces went by us, 
 
 99 
 
ON HEAVEN 
 
 And gypsies and Spanish shepherds, noiseless in 
 
 sandals of straw, sauntered nigh us, 
 Wearing slouch hats and old sheep-skins, and 
 
 casting admiring glances 
 From dark, foreign eyes at my dear. . . . 
 (And ah, it is Heaven alone, to have her alone and 
 
 so near !) 
 So all this world rejoices 
 In the cool of the even 
 In Heaven. . . . 
 And, when the cool of the even was fully 
 
 there. 
 Came a great ha-ha of voices. 
 Many children run together, and all laugh and 
 
 rejoice and call. 
 Hurrying with little arms flying, and Uttle feet 
 
 flying, and little hurrying haunches, 
 From the door of a stable, 
 
 100 
 
ON HEAVEN 
 
 Where, in an olla podrida, they had been playing 
 
 at the corrida 
 With the black Spanish bull, whose nature 
 Is patience with children. And so, through the 
 
 gaps of the branches 
 Of jasmine on our screen beneath the planes, 
 We saw, coming down from the road that leads 
 
 to the olives and Alpilles, 
 A man of great stature, 
 In a great cloak. 
 With a great stride. 
 And a little joke 
 For all and sundry, coming down with a hound 
 
 at his side. 
 And he stood at the cross-roads, passing the time 
 
 of day 
 In a great, kind voice, the voice of a man-and-a- 
 
 half!— 
 
 lOI 
 
ON HEAVEN 
 
 With a great laugh, and a great clap on the back, 
 
 For a fellow in black — a priest I should say. 
 
 Or may be a lover, 
 
 Wearing black for his mistress's mood. 
 
 " A little toothache," we could hear him say ; 
 
 " but that's so good 
 When it gives over." So he passed from sight 
 In the soft twilight, into the soft night, 
 In the soft riot and tumult of the crowd. 
 
 And a magpie flew down, laughing, holding up 
 
 his beak to us. 
 And I said : " That was God ! Presently, when 
 
 he has walked through the town 
 And the night has settled down, 
 So that you may not be afraid. 
 In the darkness, he will come to our table and 
 
 speak to us." 
 
 102 
 
ON HEAVEN 
 
 And past us many saints went walking in a 
 
 company — 
 The kindly, thoughtful saints, devising and 
 
 laughing and talking. 
 And smiling at us with their pleasant solicitude. 
 And because the thick of the crowd followed to 
 
 the one side God, 
 Or to the other the saints, we sat in solitude. 
 In the distance the saints went singing all in 
 
 chorus, 
 And our Lord went by on the other side of the 
 
 street. 
 Holding a little boy. 
 Taking him to pick the musk-roses that open at 
 
 dusk, 
 For wreathing the statue of Jove, 
 Left on the Alpilles above 
 By the Romans ; since Jove, 
 
 103 
 
ON HEAVEN 
 
 Even Jove, 
 
 Must not want for his quota of honour and love ; 
 
 But round about him there must be, 
 
 With all its tender jollity, 
 
 The laughter of children in Heaven, 
 
 Making merry with roses in Heaven. 
 
 Yet never he looked at us, knowing that that 
 
 would be such joy 
 As must be over-great for hearts that needed 
 
 quiet ; 
 Such a riot and tumult of joy as quiet hearts are 
 
 not able 
 To taste to the fuU. . . . 
 
 . . . And my dear one sat in the shadows ; very 
 
 softly she wept : — 
 Such joy is in Heaven, 
 104 
 
ON HEAVEN 
 
 In the cool of the even, 
 
 After the burden and toil of the days, 
 
 After the heat and haze 
 
 In the vine-hills ; or in the shady 
 
 Whispering groves in high passes up in the 
 
 Alpilles, 
 Guarding the castle of God. 
 
 And I went on talking towards her unseen face : 
 " So it is, so it goes, in this beloved place, 
 There shall be never a grief but passes ; no, not 
 
 any; 
 There shall be such bright light and no blindness ; 
 There shall be so little awe and so much loving- 
 kindness ; 
 There shall be a little longing and enough care. 
 There shall be a little labour and enough of toil 
 To bring back the lost flavour of our human coil ; 
 
 105 
 
ON HEAVEN 
 
 Not enough to taint it ; 
 
 And all that we desire shall prove as fair as we 
 
 can paint it." 
 For, though that may be the very hardest trick 
 
 ofaU 
 God set himself, who fashioned this goodly hall. 
 Thus he has made Heaven ; 
 Even Heaven. 
 
 For God is a very clever mechanician ; 
 
 And if he made this proud and goodly ship of the 
 
 world, 
 From the maintop to the hull, 
 Do you think he could not finish it to the fuU, 
 With a flag and all. 
 And make it sail, tall and brave. 
 On the waters, beyond the grave ? 
 It should cost but very little rhetoric 
 io6 
 
ON HEAVEN 
 
 To explain for you that last, fine, conjuring trick ; 
 Nor does God need to be a very great magician 
 To give to each man after his heart, 
 Who knows very well what each man has in his 
 
 heart : 
 To let you pass your life in a night-club where 
 
 they dance, 
 If that is your idea of heaven ; if you will, in the 
 
 South of France ; 
 If you will, on the turbulent sea ; if you will, in 
 
 the peace of the night ; 
 Where you will ; how you will ; 
 Or in the long death of a kiss, that may never 
 
 pall: 
 He would be a very little God if He could not do 
 
 all this, 
 And He is still 
 The great God of all. 
 
 107 
 
ON HEAVEN 
 
 For God is a good man ; God is a kind man ; 
 In the darkness He came walking to our table 
 
 beneath the planes, 
 And spoke 
 
 So kindly to my dear, 
 With a little joke, 
 Giving Himself some pains 
 To take away her fear 
 Of His stature, 
 So as not to abash her, 
 In no way at all to dash her new pleasure beneath 
 
 the planes, 
 In the cool of the even 
 In heaven. 
 
 That, that is God's nature. 
 
 For God's a good brother, and God is no blind 
 
 man, 
 1 08 
 
ON HEAVEN 
 
 And God's a good mother and loves sons who're 
 
 rovers, 
 And God is our father and loves all good lovers. 
 He has a kindly smile for many a poor sinner ; 
 He takes note to make it up to poor wayfarers on 
 
 sodden roads ; 
 Such as bear heavy loads 
 He takes note of, and of all that toil on bitter 
 
 seas and frosty lands, 
 He takes care that they shall have good at his 
 
 hands ; 
 Well He takes note of a poor old cook, 
 Cooking your dinner ; 
 
 And much He loves sweet joys in such as ever took 
 Sweet joy on earth. He has a kindly smile for a 
 
 kiss 
 Given in a shady nook. 
 And in the golden book 
 
 109 
 
ON HEAVEN 
 
 Where the accounts of His estate are kept, 
 All the round, golden sovereigns of bliss, 
 Known by poor lovers, married or never yet 
 
 married, 
 Whilst the green world waked, or the black world 
 
 quietly slept ; 
 All joy, all sweetness, each sweet sigh that's 
 
 sighed — -9^ 
 
 Their accounts are kept, 
 And carried 
 
 By the love of God to His own credit's side. 
 So that is why He came to our table to welcome 
 
 my dear, dear bride, 
 In the cool of the even 
 In front of a cafe in Heaven. 
 
 no 
 
APPENDIX 
 
No., 
 
 Army Form C. 348. 
 
 MEMORANDUM. 
 
 From O.C. Detachment 
 
 Welch Regt. 
 To O.C. No. I Garrison Coy. 
 
 Welch Regt. 
 
 From O.C. No. i Garrison Coy. 
 To O.C. Detachment 
 Answer. 
 
 I 
 
 2 
 
 3.7.1916 
 49522 Pte. Eyes 49642 Fte. Skies 
 49772 >. Tar 49767 ,. Star 
 49742 » Are 50162 ,, Jar 
 49877 „ Rise 51172 „ Skies 
 48123 „ Harsh 47717 >. Goes 
 48345 „ Foes 47229 „ Place 
 48543 „ Marsh 47076 „ Face 
 
 3.7.1916 
 Ref: opposite 
 
 AFB.'s I2J nattached herewith. 
 Exhibit I for necessary discip- 
 linary action, please. 
 
 F. M. Hueffer, 
 
 2/Lt., 
 
 O.C. No. I Garrison Coy. 
 
 Kindly send AFB.'s 121 of above. 
 H. C, James, 
 Capt., 
 
 O.C. Dt., Welch 
 
 
 3 
 
 3.7.16 
 
 AFB's 252 X passed to you. 
 Exhibit 2. Receipt, please. 
 H. C. James, Capt., 
 
 O.C. Dt. WelcJ). 
 
 4 
 
 3.7.1916 
 
 Received herewith, please. 
 F. M. Hueffer. 
 
 2/Lt., 
 
 O.C. No. I Garrison Coy. 
 
 H 
 
 II 
 
EXHIBIT I 
 
 SANCTUARY 
 
 Shadowed by your dear hair, your kind soft eyes 
 Look on wine-purple seas, whitening afar 
 With marble foam where the dim islands are. 
 We sit forgetting. For the great pines rise 
 Above dark cypress to the dim white skies 
 So clear and dark and still with one great star, 
 And marble Dryads round a great white jar 
 Gleam from the grove. Glimmering the white 
 
 owl flies 
 In the dark shades. . . . 
 
 If ever life was harsh 
 Here we forget — if ever friends turned foes. 
 The sea-cliffs beetle down above the marsh, 
 114 
 
EXHIBIT 2 
 
 ASYLUM 
 
 CiESARiES teneros suavis tibi incumbrat ocellos : 
 Nos quoque content! Isetique sedemus, obliti 
 Si quid amari animos turbarit, et sequora soli 
 Cernimus atra procul spuma canescere salis, 
 Ultima qua franguntur terrse in litora fluetus. 
 Candida marmoreBe Dryades prope dolia fulgent, 
 Pergracilisque pinus miscetur imagine coeli 
 (Omnes exsuperans herbas, abrasque cupressos) 
 Unica qua Veneris constanter Stella refulget 
 Per tenebras radians Stygias. Umbris in opacis 
 Noctua sublustris volitat. . . . 
 Si quid acerbi inerat vitae, si fallimur usque 
 Quod nimium credimus, nobis nunc omnia cedunt. 
 
 "5 
 
SANCTUARY 
 
 And through sea-holly the black panther goes. 
 And in the shadow of that secret place, '^ 
 
 Your kind, dear eyes shine in your dear, dear face. 
 
 F. M. H. 
 
 ii6 
 
ASYLUM 
 
 Imminet et scopulas praeceps sequoribus atris ; 
 Perque herbas niger insepit pantsera marinas, 
 Longse iam subeunt umbrae, sed lumina semper 
 Vestra benigna mihi fulgent ex ore benigno. 
 
 H. C. J. 
 
 117 
 
AFTER THE WAR 
 
 From Cardiff runs a winding road 
 With, at its end, a pleasant hearth : 
 So short's the way and light the load 
 From Cardiff to Penarth. 
 
 And she who sits beside the hearth, 
 Or greets me on the pleasant leas, 
 Shall one day in the applegarth 
 Talk of these days as memories. 
 
 And as the golden summer slips 
 Into the time of harvest moons 
 That set behind the spidery ships 
 After long afternoons, 
 Il8 
 
MILES REDIVIVUS 
 
 Est focus ingressis gratus, gratique Penates, 
 Quo via stipata duck ab urbe sinens ; 
 
 Est in conspectu,neque longa ex urbe Penarthum— 
 Tam brevis extendens, tarn sinuosa via. 
 
 Ilia sed in pratis quse meve salutat euntem 
 Amplexuve sedans implicat ipsa levi, 
 
 Uno forte die optabit, volventibus annis, 
 Per vineta errans hos revocare dies. 
 
 Amea cum redeunt moriturae tempora lucis 
 Inque solet summo luna micare polo, 
 
 Agricolisque prius lucem diflFundere laetis 
 Quam, quasi perlongo fessa labore dici, 
 
 119 
 
AFTER THE WAR 
 
 We'll hear the churning nightjar play 
 About the applegarth, 
 And watch the closing in of day 
 Beside the glimmering hearth : 
 And we'U recall the winding way 
 From Cardiff to Penarth. 
 
 F. M. H. 
 
 1 20 
 
MILES REDIVIVUS 
 
 Balnea ad oceani veniet. Turn forte per agros 
 Turn captare sonos aure invabit avium. 
 
 Vespere maiores altis in montibus umbras 
 In dubia flammae luce videre licet ; 
 
 At reddetur iter nobis ex urbe Penarthum — 
 Tam brevis extendens, tarn sinuosa via. 
 
 H. C. J. 
 
 121 
 
" THERE SHALL BE MORE JOY . 
 
 The little angels of Heaven 
 Each wear a long white dress, 
 And in the tall arcadings 
 Play ball and play at chess ; 
 
 With never a soil on their garments, 
 Not a sigh the whole day long. 
 Not a bitter note in their pleasure. 
 Not a bitter note in their song. 
 
 But they shall know keener pleasure, 
 And they shall know joy naore rare — 
 Keener, keener pleasure 
 When you, my dear, come there. 
 
 122 
 
GAUDEBUNT ANGELI . . . 
 
 LoNGis quisque suis ornati vestibus albis 
 Coelicolae ludunt albis sub turribus arcis, 
 Risibus implentes auras, talosque tilasque 
 
 Lascivi voluntantes. 
 
 Nunquam pernitidas cernunt nigrescere vestes 
 Neve dolorosas suspirant usque per horas : 
 NuUse dum cantant lacrimse, sed carmina fundunt 
 
 Lseta dulcia voce. 
 
 Te quoque, delicias solas, maiore Puella 
 Lstitia accipient venientem ad templa deorum ; 
 Longa dies et erit semper, tam longa voluptas, 
 Dum te voce salutant. 
 
 123 
 
'THERE SHALL BE MORE JOY . . .» 
 
 The little angels of Heaven 
 Each wear a long white gown, 
 And they lean over the ramparts 
 Waiting and looking down. 
 
 F. M. H. 
 
 124 
 
GAUDEBUNT ANGELI . . . 
 
 Longis quisque suis ornati vestibus albis 
 Ccelicolse cubito divorum in valla redinant : 
 Despiciunt et ibi summa de vertice cceli. 
 
 Fessi, oculosque fatigant. 
 H. C. J. 
 
 1 25 
 
AD BELLA VOCATUS 
 
 Est turris, quo delicias meas 
 
 Olim perveniens videbam : 
 
 Illius in gradibus digitalis 
 
 Purpureus captat vestigia aure 
 
 Ingredientis. 
 
 Cursum sol peragit medium polo 
 
 Purpureique auras flores odore 
 
 Implent : 
 
 In gradibus leviter resonant vestigia 
 
 Est desiderium turris mihi ; 
 Est desiderium rivi quoque, 
 Purpureique alto florent muri : 
 126 
 
AD BELLA VOCATUS 
 
 Floras ex superans digitalis omnes 
 Amas amplexu tenero supremas 
 Tenere videtur. 
 
 Mox et " Germaniam tristis petam " — 
 Longum iter — et terras alienas. 
 
 Tunc abero : et veniet perfidus miles — 
 
 Miles non nobis mihi — 
 
 Deliciasque meas amplexu false 
 
 lUe tenebit, et in pratis vagatus 
 
 Dicet amorem, 
 
 Auris dum miscetur odor, 
 
 Dum resonant leviter vestigia Amatse 
 
 H. C. J.i 
 
 1 This is a rendering of "The Silver Music," p. 35. 
 
 127 
 
TO F. M. H. EXIT AD GALLIAM (IDIBUS 
 lULIANIS MCMXVI) 
 
 LusiSTi satis . . . 
 Fundite iam lacrimas, saltus, O fundite montes : 
 Linquit enim socios moerentes carus Alexis, 
 Horrida bella petens, alienaque litora quaerens. 
 O Pater omnipotens — tibi enim sunt omnia 
 
 curse — 
 Te precor ut fatis fortunaeque illius adsis. 
 
 • • • • » 
 
 At quid fleremus ? Patrios servare Penates 
 Bis felix ! Felix tantos superasse labores 
 Gaudens : fortunate puer : sic itur ad astra. 
 
 H. C. J. 
 
 128