^'^' 
 
The Old Huntsman 
 
 And Other Poems 
 
The Old Huntsman 
 
 And Other Poems 
 
 BY 
 
 SIEGFRIED SASSOON 
 
 NEW YORK 
 E. p. DUTTON & COMPANY 
 
 68 1 Fifth Avenue 
 
Published, 1918 ' \o\c^ 
 By E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 
 
 
 First Edition, May, igiy 
 
 Second Edition, A ugust, igi'j 
 
 New American Edition, May, iqtS 
 
 Printed in the United States of America 
 
To 
 THOMAS HARDY, O.M. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 "^ The Old Huntsman 
 
 I 
 
 Absolution 
 
 13 
 
 Brothers 
 
 14 
 
 ^^ The Dragon and the Undying 
 
 15 
 
 France 
 
 16 
 
 " To Victory 
 
 17 
 
 When I'm among a Blaze of Lights 
 
 i8 
 
 Golgotha 
 
 19 
 
 A Mystic as Soldier 
 
 20 
 
 The Kiss 
 
 21 
 
 The Redeemer 
 
 22 
 
 A Subaltern 
 
 25 
 
 " In the Pink " 
 
 26 
 
 A Working Party 
 
 27 
 
 A Whispered Tale 
 
 30 
 
 " Blighters '* 
 
 31 
 
 At Carnoy 
 
 32 
 
 To His Dead Body 
 
 33 
 
 Two Hundred Years After 
 
 34 
 
 " They " 
 
 35 
 
 Stand-to; Good Friday Morning 
 
 36 
 
PAGE 
 
 Special-Constable 37 
 
 The Choral Union 39 
 
 Liquor-Control 41 
 
 •^'The One-legged Man 43 
 
 Enemies 44 
 
 The Tombstone-Maker 45 
 
 Arms and the Man 46 
 
 Died of Wounds 47 
 
 J The Hero 48 
 
 Stretcher Case 49 
 
 Conscripts 51 
 
 The Road 53 
 
 Secret Music 54 
 
 Nimrod in September 55 
 
 Morning Express 56 
 
 Noah 58 
 
 Policeman 59 
 
 David Cleek 60 
 
 Ancestors 61 
 
 Haunted 62 
 
 Blind 65 
 
 Before Day 66 
 
 Villon 67 
 
 Goblin Revel 68 
 
 Night-Piece 69 
 
 A Wanderer 70 
 
 October 
 
 71 
 
 VJll 
 
PAGE 
 
 The Heritage 7^ 
 
 An Old French Poet 73 
 
 Dryads 74 
 
 I Before the Battle 75 
 
 Morning-Land 7^ 
 
 Arcady Unheeding 11 
 
 Gibbet 78 
 
 Dream Forest 79 
 
 A Child's Prayer 80 
 
 -doming Glory 81 
 
 To-day 82 
 
 Wonderment 83 
 
 Daybreak in a Garden 84 
 
 Companions 85 
 
 A Poplar and the Moon 86 
 
 South Wind 87 
 
 Tree and Sky 88 
 
 Alone 89 
 
 Storm and Sunlight 9^ 
 
 Wind in the Beechwood 9^ 
 
 Wisdom 93 
 
 U The Death-Bed 94 
 
 The Last Meeting 97 
 
 A Letter Home lOS 
 
The Old Huntsman 
 
 And Other Poems 
 
The Old Huntsman 
 
 [To Norman Loder] 
 
 I've never ceased to curse the day I signed 
 A seven years' bargain for the Golden Fleece. 
 'Twas a bad deal all round; and dear enough 
 It cost me, what with my daft management, 
 And the mean folk as owed and never paid me, 
 And backing losers ; and the local bucks 
 Egging me on with whiskies while I bragged 
 The man I was when huntsman to the Squire. 
 
 I'd have been prosperous if I'd took a farm 
 Of seventy acres, drove my gig and haggled 
 At Monday markets; now I've squandered all 
 My savings; nigh three hundred pound I got 
 As testimonial when I'd growfl too stifif 
 And slow to press a beaten fdx. 
 
 fit 
 
 
The Fleece! 
 'Twas the damned Fleece that wore my Emily out, 
 The wife of thirty years who served me well; 
 (Not like this beldam clattering in the kitchen, 
 That never trims a lamp nor sweeps the floor, 
 And brings me greasy soup in a foul crock.) 
 
 Blast the old harridan! What's fetched her now, 
 Leaving me in the dark, and short of fire? 
 And where's my pipe? 'Tis lucky I've a turn 
 For thinking, and remembering all that's past. 
 And now's my hour, before I hobble to bed, 
 To set the works a-wheezing, wind the clock 
 That keeps the time of life with feeble tick 
 Behind my bleared old face that stares and wonders. 
 
 • • • • • 
 
 It's queer how, in the dark, comes back to mind 
 Some morning of September. We've been digging 
 In a steep, sandy warren, riddled with holes. 
 And I've just pulled the terrier out and left 
 A sharp-nosed cub-face blinking there and snapping, 
 
Then in a moment seen him mobbed and torn 
 
 To strips in the baying hurly of the pack. 
 
 I picture it so clear: the dusty sunshine 
 
 On bracken, and the men with spades, that wipe 
 
 Red faces : one tilts up a mug of ale. 
 
 And, having stooped to clean my gory hands, 
 
 I whistle the jostling beauties out o' the wood. 
 
 I'm but a daft old fool! I often wish 
 
 The Squire were back again — ah, he was a man! 
 
 They don't breed men like him these days; he'd come 
 
 For sure, and sit and talk and suck his briar 
 
 Till the old wife brings up a dish of tea. 
 
 Ay, those were days, when I was serving Squire! 
 
 I never knowed such sport as '85, 
 
 The winter afore the one that snowed us silly. 
 
 Once in a way the parson will drop in 
 And read a bit o' the Bible, if I'm bad, — 
 Pray the Good Lord to make my spirit whole 
 In faith : he leaves some 'baccy on the shelf, 
 
 / 
 
And wonders I don't keep a dog to cheer me, 
 Because he knows I'm mortal fond of dogs I 
 
 I ask you, what's a gent like that to me, 
 As wouldn't know Elijah if I saw him. 
 Nor have the wit to keep him on the talk ? 
 'Tis kind of parson to be troubling still 
 With such as me; but he's a town-bred chap, 
 Full of his college notions and Christmas hymns. 
 
 Religion beats me. I'm amazed at folk 
 Drinking the gospels in and never scratching 
 Their heads for questions. When I was a lad 
 I learned a bit from mother, and never thought 
 To educate myself for prayers and psalms. 
 
 But now I'm old and bald and serious-minded, 
 
 With days to sit and ponder. I'd no chance 
 
 When young and gay to get the hang of all 
 
 This Hell and Heaven : and when the clergy hoick 
 
 And holloa from their pulpits, I'm asleep, 
 
 However hard I listen ; and when they pray 
 4 
 
It seems we're all like children sucking sweets 
 In school, and wondering whether master sees. 
 
 I used to dream of Hell when I was first 
 Promoted to a huntsman's job, and scent 
 Was rotten, and all the foxes disappeared, 
 And hounds were short of blood; and officers 
 From barracks over-rode 'em all day long 
 On weedy, whistling nags that knocked a hole 
 In every fence; good sportsmen to a man 
 And brigadiers by now, but dreadful hard 
 On a young huntsman keen to show some sport. 
 
 Ay, Hell was thick with captains, and I rode 
 The lumbering brute that's beat in half a mile, 
 And blunders into every blind old ditch. 
 Hell was the coldest scenting land I've known. 
 And both my whips were always lost, and hounds 
 Would never get their heads down; and a man 
 On a great yawing chestnut trying to cast 'em 
 While I was in a corner pounded by 
 
 5 
 
The ugliest hog-backed stile you've clapped your 
 
 eyes on. 
 There was an iron-spiked fence round all the coverts, 
 And civil-spoken keepers I couldn't trust, 
 And the main earth unstopp'd. The fox I found 
 Was always a three-legged 'un from a bag 
 Who reeked of aniseed and wouldn't run. 
 The farmers were all ploughing their old pasture 
 And bellowing at me when I rode their beans 
 To cast for beaten fox, or galloped on 
 With hounds to a lucky view. I'd lost my voice 
 Although I shouted fit to burst my guts. 
 And couldn't blow my horn. 
 
 And when I woke, 
 Emily snored, and barn-cocks started crowing, 
 And morn was at the window; and I was glad 
 To be alive because I heard the cry 
 Of hounds like church-bells chiming on a Sunday, — 
 Ay, that's the song I'd wish to hear in Heaven! 
 The cry of hounds was Heaven for me: I know 
 Parson would call me crazed and wrong to say it, 
 
But Where's the use of life and being glad 
 If God's not in your gladness? 
 
 I've no brains 
 For book-learned studies; but I've heard men say 
 There's much in print that clergy have to wink at: 
 Though many I've met were jolly chaps, and rode 
 To hounds, and walked me puppies; and could 
 
 pick 
 Good legs and loins and necks and shoulders, ay, 
 And feet, — 'twas necks and feet I looked at first. 
 
 Some hounds I've known were wise as half your 
 
 saints. 
 And better hunters. That old dog of the Duke's, 
 Harlequin; what a dog he was to draw! 
 And what a note he had, and what a nose 
 When foxes ran down wind and scent was catchy! 
 And that light lemon bitch of the Squire's, old 
 
 Dorcas, — 
 She were a marvellous hunter, were old Dorcas! 
 
 7 
 
Ay, oft I've thought: "If there were hounds in 
 
 Heaven, 
 "With God as Master, taking no subscription; 
 "And all His blessed country farmed by tenants; 
 "And a straight-necked old fox in every gorse!" 
 But when I came to work it out, I found 
 There'd be too many huntsmen wanting places, — 
 Though some I've known might get a job with 
 
 Nick! 
 
 I've come to think of God as something like 
 
 The figure of a man the old Duke was 
 
 When I was turning hounds to Nimrod King, 
 
 Before his Grace was took so bad with gout. 
 
 And had to quit the saddle. Tall and spare, 
 
 Clean-shaved and grey, with shrewd, kind eyes, that 
 
 twinkled, 
 
 And easy walk; who, when he gave good words, 
 
 Gave them whole-hearted ; and would never blame 
 
 Without just cause. Lord God might be like that, 
 
 Sitting alone in a great room of books 
 
 Some evening after hunting. 
 8 
 
Now I'm tired 
 With hearkening to the tick-tack on the shelf; 
 And pondering makes me doubtful. 
 
 Riding home 
 On a moonless night of cloud that feels like frost 
 Though stars are hidden, (hold your feet up, horse!) 
 And thinking what a task I had to draw 
 A pack with all those lame 'uns, and the lot 
 Wanting a rest from all this open weather, — 
 That's what I'm doing now. 
 
 And likely, too, 
 The frost'll be a long 'un, and the night 
 One sleep. The parsons say we'll wake to find 
 A country blinding-white with dazzle of snow. 
 
 The naked stars make men feel lonely, — ^wheeling 
 And glinting on the puddles in the road. 
 And then you listen to the wind, and wonder 
 If folk are quite «uch bucks as they appear 
 
 9 
 
When dressed by London tailors, looking down 
 Their boots at covert side, and thinking big. 
 
 This world's a funny place to live in. Soon 
 I'll need to change my country; but I know 
 'Tis little enough I've understood my life, 
 And a power of sights I've missed, and foreign 
 
 marvels. 
 
 I used to feel it, riding on spring days 
 
 In meadows pied with sun and chasing clouds, 
 
 And half forget how I was there to catch 
 
 The foxes; lose the angry, eager feeling 
 
 A huntsman ought to have, that's out for blood. 
 
 And means his hounds to get it! 
 
 Now I know 
 It's God that speaks to us when we're bewitched. 
 Smelling the hay in June and smiling quiet; 
 Or when there's been a spell of summer drought, 
 Lying awake and listening to the rain. 
 
 lO 
 
I'd like to be the simpleton I was 
 
 In the old days when I was whipping-in 
 
 To a little harrier-pack in Worcestershire, 
 
 And loved a dairymaid, but never knew it 
 
 Until she'd wed another. So I've loved 
 
 My life; and when the good years are gone down, 
 
 Discover what I've lost. 
 
 I never broke 
 Out of my blundewng self into the world, 
 But let it all go past me, like a man 
 Half-asleep in a land that's full of wars. 
 
 What a grand thing 'twould be if I could go 
 Back to the kennels now and take my hounds 
 For summer exercise; be riding out 
 With forty couple when the quiet skies 
 Are streaked with sunrise, and the silly birds 
 Grown hoarse with singing; cobwebs on the furze 
 Up on the hill, and all the country strange. 
 With no one stirring; and the horses fresh. 
 Sniffing the air I'll never breathe again. 
 
 II 
 
You've brought the lamp then, Martha? I've no 
 
 mind 
 For newspaper to-night, nor bread and cheese. 
 Give me the candle, and I'll get to bed. 
 
 12 
 
Absolution 
 
 The anguish of the earth absolves our eyes 
 Till beauty shines in all that we can see. 
 War is our scourge; yet war has made us wise, 
 And, fighting for our freedom, we are free. 
 
 Horror of wounds and anger at the foe, 
 And loss of things desired; all these must pass. 
 We are the happy legion, for we know 
 Time's but a golden wind that shakes the grass. 
 
 There was an hour when we were loth to part 
 From life we longed to share no less than others. 
 Now, having claimed this heritage of heart, 
 What need we more, my comrades and my brothers? 
 
 13 
 
Brothers 
 
 Give me your hand, my brother, search my face; 
 Look in these eyes lest I should think of shame. 
 For we have made an end of all things base; 
 We are returning by the road we came. 
 
 Your lot is with the ghosts of soldiers dead, 
 And I am in the field where men must fight. 
 But in the gloom I see your laurell'd head 
 And through your victory I shall win the light. 
 
 14 
 
The Dragon and the Undying 
 
 All night the flares go up; the Dragon sings 
 And beats upon the dark with furious wings; 
 And, stung to rage by his own darting fires, 
 Reaches with grappling coils from town to town; 
 He lusts to break the loveliness of spires, 
 And hurls their martyred music toppling down. 
 
 Yet, though the slain are homeless as the breeze, 
 Vocal are they, like storm-bewilder'd seas. 
 Their faces are the fair, unshrouded night. 
 And planets are their eyes, their ageless dreams. 
 Tenderly stooping earthward from their height, 
 They wander in the dusk with chanting streams; 
 And they are dawn-lit trees, with arms up-flung, 
 To hail the burning heavens they left unsung. 
 
 IS 
 
France 
 
 She triumphs, in the vivid green 
 Where sun and quivering foliage meet; 
 And in each soldier's heart serene; 
 When death stood near them they have seen 
 The radiant forests where her feet 
 Move on a breeze of silver sheen. 
 
 And they are fortunate, who fight 
 
 For gleaming landscapes swept and shafted 
 
 And crowned by cloud pavilions white; 
 
 Hearing such harmonies as might 
 
 Only from Heaven be downward wafted — 
 
 Voices of victory and delight 
 
 '.6 
 
To Victory 
 
 [To Edmund Gosse] 
 Return to greet me, colours that were my joy, 
 Not in the woeful crimson of men slain, 
 But shining as a garden; come with the streaming 
 Banners of dawn and sundown after rain. 
 
 I want to fill my gaze with blue and silver, 
 Radiance through living roses, spires of green 
 Rising in young-limbed copse and lovely wood 
 Where the hueless wind passes and cries unseen. 
 
 I am not sad; only I long for lustre, — 
 Tired of the greys and browns and the leafless ash. 
 I would have hours that move like a glitter of dancers 
 Far from the angry guns that boom and flash. 
 
 Return, musical, gay with blossom and fleetness, 
 
 Days when my sight shall be clear and my heart 
 
 rejoice ; 
 
 Come from the sea with breadth of approaching 
 
 brightness, 
 
 When the blithe wind laughs on the hills with 
 
 uplifted voice. 
 17 
 
when Vm among a Blaze of Lights 
 
 When I'm among a blaze of lights, 
 With tawdry music and cigars 
 And women dawdling through delights, 
 And officers at cocktail bars, — 
 Sometimes I think of garden nights 
 And elm trees nodding at the stars. 
 
 I dream of a small firelit room 
 With yellow candles burning straight, 
 And glowing pictures in the gloom, 
 And kindly books that hold me late. 
 Of things like these I love to think 
 When I can never be alone: 
 Then someone says, "Another drink?"— 
 And turns my living heart to stone. 
 
 i8 
 
Golgotha 
 
 Through darkness curves a spume of falling flares 
 That flood the field with shallow, blanching light. 
 
 The huddled sentry stares 
 
 On gloom at war with white, 
 
 And white receding slow, submerged in gloom. 
 
 Guns into mimic thunder burst and boom, 
 
 And mirthless laughter rakes the whistling night. 
 The sentry keeps his watch where no one stirs 
 But the brown rats, the nimble scavengers. 
 
 19 
 
A Mystic as Soldier 
 
 I LIVED my days apart, 
 Dreaming fair songs for God, 
 By the glory in my heart 
 Covered and crowned and shod. 
 
 Now God is in the strife, 
 And I must seek Him there, 
 Where death outnumbers life. 
 And fury smites the air. 
 
 I walk the secret way 
 With anger in my brain. 
 O music through my clay. 
 When will you sound again? 
 
 20 
 
The Kiss 
 
 To these I turn, in these I trust; 
 Brother Lead and Sister Steel. 
 To his blind power I make appeal; 
 I o^uard her beauty clean from rust. 
 
 He spins and burns and loves the air, 
 And splits a skull to win my praise; 
 But up the nobly marching days 
 She glitters naked, cold and fair. 
 
 Sweet Sister, grant your soldier this; 
 That in good fury he may feel 
 The body where he sets his heel 
 Quail from your downward darting kiss. 
 
 21 
 
The Redeemer 
 
 Darkness: the rain sluiced down; the mire was deep; 
 It was past twelve on a mid-winter night, 
 When peaceful folk in beds lay snug asleep : 
 There, with much work to do before the light, 
 We lugged our clay-sucked boots as best we might 
 Along the trench; sometimes a bullet sang, 
 And droning shells burst with a hollow bang; 
 We were soaked, chilled and wretched, every one. 
 Darkness : the distant wink of a huge gun. 
 
 I turned in the black ditch, loathing the storm; 
 A rocket fizzed and burned with blanching flare. 
 And lit the face of what had been a form 
 Floundering in mirk. He stook before me there; 
 I say that he was Christ; stiff in the glare, 
 
 23 
 
And leaning forward from his burdening task, 
 Both arms supporting it; his eyes on mine 
 Stared from the woeful head that seemed a mask 
 Of mortal pain in Hell's unholy shine. 
 
 No thorny crown, only a woollen cap 
 He wore — an English soldier, white and strong, 
 Who loved his time like any simple chap. 
 Good days of work and sport and homely song; 
 Now he has learned that nights are very long. 
 And dawn a watching of the windowed sky. 
 But to the end, unjudging, he'll endure 
 Horror and pain, not uncontent to die 
 That Lancaster on Lune may stand secure. 
 
 He faced me, reeling in his weariness, 
 Shouldering his load of planks, so hard to bear. 
 I say that he was Christ, who wrought to bless 
 All groping things with freedom bright as air. 
 And with His mercy washed and made them fair. 
 
 23 
 
Then the flame sank, and all grew black as pitch, 
 While we began to struggle along the ditch; 
 And someone flung his burden in the muck, 
 Mumbling: "O Christ Almighty, now I'm stuck!" 
 
 24 
 
A Subaltern 
 
 He turned to me with his kind, sleepy gaze 
 And fresh face slowly brightening to the grin 
 That sets my memory back to summer days 
 With twenty runs to make, and last man in. 
 He told me he'd been having a bloody time 
 In trenches, crouching for the "crumps" to burst, 
 While squeaking rats scampered across the slime 
 And the grey palsied weather did its worst. 
 But as he stamped and shivered in the rain, 
 My stale philosophies had served him well; 
 Dreaming about his girl had sent his brain 
 Blanker than ever — she'd no place in Hell. . . . 
 "Good God!" he laughed, and calmly filled his pipe, 
 Wondering "why he always talked such tripe." 
 
 25 
 
"In the Pink" 
 
 So Davies wrote : "This leaves me in the pink." 
 Then scrawled his name: ''Your loving sweetheart, 
 
 Willie." 
 With crosses for a hug. He'd had a drink 
 Of rum and tea; and, though the barn was chilly, 
 For once his blood ran warm; he had pay to spend. 
 Winter was passing; soon the year would mend. 
 
 He couldn't sleep that night. Stiff in the dark 
 
 He groaned and thought of Sundays at the farm, 
 
 When he'd go out as cheerful as a lark 
 
 In his best suit to wander arm-in-arm 
 
 Wi^'i brown-eyed Gwen, and whisper in her ear 
 
 The simple, silly things she liked to hear. 
 
 And then he thought : to-morrow night we trudge 
 
 Up to the trenches, and my boots are rotten. 
 
 Five miles of stodgy clay and freezing sludge, 
 
 And everything but wretchedness forgotten. 
 
 To-night he's in the pink; but soon he'll die. 
 
 And still the war goes on; he don't know why. 
 26 
 
A Working Party 
 
 Three hours ago he blundered up the trench, 
 Sliding and poising, groping with his boots; 
 Sometimes he tripped and lurched against the walls 
 With hands that pawed the sodden bags of chalk. 
 He couldn't see the man who walked in front; 
 Only he heard the drum and rattle of feet 
 Stepping along the trench-boards, — often splashing 
 Wretchedly where the sludge was ankle-deep. 
 
 Voices would grunt, "Keep to your right, — make 
 
 way!" 
 When squeezing past the men from the front-line: 
 White faces peered, puffing a point of red; 
 Candles and braziers glinted through the chinks 
 And curtain-flaps of dug-outs; then the gloom 
 Swallowed his sense of sight; he stooped and swore 
 Because a sagging wire had caught his neck. 
 
 27 
 
A flare went up; the shining whiteness spread 
 And flickered upward, showing nimble rats, 
 And mounds qpf glimmering sand-bags, bleached with 
 
 rain; 
 Then the slow, silver moment died in dark. 
 The wind came posting by with chilly gusts 
 And buffeting at corners, piping thin 
 And dreary through the crannies; rifle-shots 
 Would split and crack and sing along the night, 
 And shells came calmly through the drizzling air 
 To burst with hollow bang below the hill. 
 
 Three'hburs'ago he stumbled up the trench; 
 Now he. will never walk that road again: 
 He must be carried back, a jolting lump 
 Beyond all need of tenderness and care; 
 A nine-stone corpse with nothing more to do. 
 
 He was a young man with a meagre wife 
 
 And two pale children in a Midland town; 
 
 He showed the photograph to all his mates; 
 28 
 
And they considered him a decent chap 
 Who did his work and hadn't much to say, 
 And always laughed at other people's jokes 
 Because he hadn't any of his own. 
 
 That night, when he was busy at his job 
 
 Of piling bags along the parapet, 
 
 He thought how slow time went, stamping his feet, 
 
 And blowing on his fingers, pinched with cold. 
 
 He thought of getting back by half-past twelve. 
 
 And tot of rum to send him warm to sleep 
 
 In draughty dug-out frowsty with the fumes 
 
 Of coke, and full of snoring, weary men. 
 
 He pushed another bag along the top, 
 
 Craning his body outward; then a flare 
 
 Gave one white glimpse of No Man's Land and wire; 
 
 And as he dropped his head the instant split 
 
 His startled life with lead, and all went out. 
 
 29 
 
A Whispered Tale 
 
 [To J. D.] 
 
 I'd heard fool-heroes brag of where they'd been, 
 With stories of the glories that they'd seen, 
 Till there was nothing left for shame to screen. 
 
 But you, good, simple soldier, seasoned well 
 In woods and posts and crater-lines of hell, 
 Who dodge remembered "crumps" with wry 
 
 grimace, — 
 Cold hours of torment in your queer, kind face. 
 Smashed bodies in your strained, unhappy eyes, 
 And both your brothers killed to make you wise; 
 You had no empty babble; what you said 
 Was like a whisper from the maimed and dead. 
 But Memory brought the voice I knew, whose note 
 Was smothered when they shot you in the throat; 
 And still you whisper of the war, and find 
 Sour jokes for all those horrors left behind. 
 
 30 
 
** Blighters" 
 
 The House is crammed : tier beyond tier they grin 
 And cackle at the Show, while prancing ranks 
 Of harlots shrill the chorus, drunk with din; 
 "We're sure the Kaiser loves the dear old Tanks!" 
 
 I'd like to see a Tank come down the stalls, 
 Lurching to ragtime tunes, or "Home, sweet 
 
 Home,"- 
 And there'd be no more jokes in Music-halls 
 To mock the riddled corpses round Bapaume. 
 
 31 
 
At Carnoy 
 
 Down in the hollow there's the whole Brigade 
 Camped in four groups: through twilight falling 
 
 slow 
 I hear a sound of mouth-organs, ill-played, 
 And murmur of voices, gruff, confused, and low. 
 Crouched among thistle-tufts I've watched the glow 
 Of a blurred orange sunset flare and fade; 
 And I'm content. To-morrow we must go 
 To take some cursed Wood. . . O world God made 1 
 
 ^July 3rd, 1916. 
 
 32 
 
To His Dead Body 
 
 When roaring gloom surged inward and you cried, 
 Groping for friendly hands, and clutched, and died, 
 Like racing smoke, swift from your lolling head 
 Phantoms of thoughts and memory thinned and fled. 
 
 Yet, though my dreams that throng the darkened 
 
 stair 
 Can bring me no report of how you fare. 
 Safe quit of wars, I speed you on your way 
 Up lonely, glimmering fields to find new day, 
 Slow-rising, saintless, confident and kind — 
 Dear, red-faced father God who lit your mind. 
 
 33 
 
Two Hundred Years After 
 
 Trudging by Corbie Ridge one winter's night, 
 (Unless old, hearsay memories tricked his sight), 
 Along the pallid edge of the quiet sky 
 He watched a nosing lorry grinding on. 
 And straggling files of men; when thes-e were gone, 
 A double limber and six mules went by, 
 Hauling the rations up through ruts and mud 
 To trench-lines digged two hundred years ago. 
 Then darkness hid them with a rainy scud, 
 And soon he saw the village lights below. 
 
 But when he'd told his tale, an old man said 
 That he'd seen soldiers pass along that hill; 
 ''Poor, silent things, they were the English dead 
 "Who came to fight in France and got their fill." 
 
 34 
 
"They" 
 
 The Bishop tells us : "When the boys come back 
 "They will not be the same; for they'll have fought 
 "In a just cause: they lead the last attack 
 "On Anti-Christ; their comrade's blood has bought 
 "New right to breed an honourable race. 
 "They have challenged Death and dared him face to 
 
 face." 
 
 "We're none of us the same!" the boys reply. 
 "For George lost both his legs; and Bill's stone blind; 
 "Poor Jim's shot through the lungs and like to die; 
 "And Bert's gone siphilitic: you'll not find 
 "A chap who's served that hasn't found some change." 
 And the Bishop said: "The ways of God are 
 
 strange !" 
 
 35 
 
Stand-to: Good Friday Morning 
 
 I'd been on duty from two till four. 
 I went and stared at the dug-out door. 
 Down in the frowst I heard them snore. 
 "Stand to!" Somebody grunted and swore. 
 
 Dawn was misty; the skies were still; 
 
 Larks were singing, discordant, shrill; 
 
 They seemed happy; but / felt ill. 
 Deep in water I splashed my way 
 Up the trench to our bogged front line. 
 Rain had fallen the whole damned night. 
 O Jesus, send me a wound to-day, 
 And I'll believe in Your bread and wine, 
 And get my bloody old sins washed white! 
 
 36 
 
Special-Constable 
 
 "Put out that light!" he cried. 
 
 But no one put it out. 
 
 No one replied, 
 
 And silence gulped his husky shout. 
 
 Against the door he blundered, 
 
 Knocked — but no one came. 
 
 Wrathful, he wondered; 
 
 "What's their number? What's their name?" 
 
 And the moon above the town 
 Through wisps of cloud looked down 
 On roofs and cowls 
 And cats and constables and owls. 
 
 He clutched his truncheon tight, 
 For he was bold that night. 
 And hurled it high 
 Up at the lit and lawless sky. 
 
 37 
 
He bawled: 'Then go to Hell!" 
 
 And, reeling home to bed, 
 
 Blue brilliance fell 
 
 From moons that danced within his head. 
 
 38 
 
The Choral Union 
 
 He staggered in from night and frost and fog, 
 And lampless streets: he'd guzzled like a hog, 
 And drunk till he was dazed; and now he came 
 
 To hear he couldn't call to mind the name, — 
 
 But he'd been given a ticket for the show. 
 
 And thought he'd (hiccup) chance his luck and go. 
 
 • • • • • 
 
 The hall swam in his eyes, and soaring light 
 Was dazzling-splendid after the dank night. 
 He sat and blinked, safe in his cushioned seat, 
 And licked his lips; he'd like a brandy, neat. 
 
 "Who is the King of Glory?" they were saying — 
 He pricked his ears; what was it? Were they 
 
 praying? . . . . 
 By God, it might be Heaven! For singers stood 
 Ranked in pure white; and everyone seemed good; 
 
 39 
 
And clergymen were sitting meekly round 
 With joyful faces, drinking in the sound; 
 And holy women, and plump, whiskered men. 
 Could this be Heaven? And was he dead? . . . . 
 
 and then 
 They all stood up; the mighty chorus broke 
 In storms of song above those blameless folk; 
 And "Hallelujah, Hallelujah!" rang 
 The burden of the triumph that they sang. 
 * • • « ■ 
 
 He gasped; it must be true; he'd got to Heaven 
 With all his sins that seventy times were seven; 
 And whispering "Hallelujah," mid their shout, 
 He wondered when Lord God would turn him out. 
 
 40 
 
Liquor-Control ' 
 
 [To Roderick Meiklejohn] 
 
 In the time of the war with the Philistine, 
 Solomon uttered a law that said: 
 ''Down with the Sign of the Saracen's Head, 
 ''Shut up the Star and the Sun and the Vinel" 
 
 Then the King went in to his glimmering dames 
 And called the roll of their languorous names; 
 But the Moon-faced Lily, the pearl divine, 
 Swooned and implored, and was sick for wine. 
 
 Down in the harem something stirred. 
 But none of the eunuchs whispered a word. 
 Glug, glug, glug! the concubines poured 
 Warm wet liquor in health to their lord. 
 
 41 
 
And Solomon spoke in a drunken voice: 
 "Let cymbals sound! Let the people rejoice!" 
 So the Jew-boys looked on the wine that was red 
 In the Vine and the Star and the Saracen's Head. 
 
 42 
 
The One-Legged Man 
 
 Propped on a stick he viewed the August weald; 
 Squat orchard trees and oasts with painted cowls; 
 A homely, tangled hedge, a corn-stooked field. 
 With sound of barking dogs and farmyard fowls. 
 
 And he'd come home again to find it more 
 
 Desirable than ever it was before. 
 
 How right it seemed that he should reach the span 
 
 Of comfortable years allowed to man I 
 
 Splendid to eat and sleep and choose a wife, 
 
 Safe with his wound, a citizen of life. 
 
 He hobbled blithely through the garden gate, 
 
 And thought: "Thank God they had to amputate I" 
 
 43 
 
Enemies 
 
 He stood alone in some queer sunless place 
 Where Armageddon ends; perhaps he longed 
 For days he might have lived; but his young face 
 Gazed forth untroubled: and suddenly there thronged 
 Round him the hulking Germans that I shot 
 When for his death my brooding rage was hot. 
 
 He stared at them, half-v^ondering; and then 
 They told him hov^ I'd killed them for his sake, — 
 Those patient, stupid, sullen ghosts of men: 
 And still there seemed no answer he could make. 
 At last he turned and smiled, and all was well 
 Because his face could lead them out of hell. 
 
 44 
 
The Tombstone-Maker 
 
 He primmed his loose red mouth, and leaned his 
 
 head 
 Against a sorrowing angel's breast, and said: 
 "You'd think so much bereavement would have made 
 "Unusual big demands upon my trade. 
 "The War comes cruel hard on some poor folk — 
 "Unless the fighting stops I'll soon be broke." 
 
 He eyed the Cemetery across the road — 
 "There's scores of bodies out abroad, this while, 
 "That should be here by rights; they little knowM 
 "How they'd get buried in such wretched style." 
 
 I told him, with a sympathetic grin. 
 That Germans boil dead soldiers down for fat; 
 And he was horrified. "What shameful sin! 
 "O sir, that Christian men should come to that!" 
 
 45 
 
Arms and the Man 
 
 Young Ctcesus went to pay his call 
 
 On Colonel Sawbones, Caxton Hall: 
 
 And, though his wound was healed and mended, 
 
 He hoped he'd get his leave extended. 
 
 The waiting-room was dark and bare. 
 He eyed a neat-framed notice there 
 Above the fireplace hung to show 
 Disabled heroes where to go 
 For arms and legs; with scale of price, 
 And words of dignified advice 
 How officers could get them free. 
 
 Elbow or shoulder, hip or knee, — 
 
 Two arms, two legs, though all were lost, 
 
 They'd be restored him free of cost. 
 
 Then a Girl-Guide looked in to say, 
 "Will Captain Croesus come this way?" 
 46 
 
Died of Wounds 
 
 His wet, white face and miserable eyes 
 Brought nurses to him more than groans and sighs: 
 But hoarse and low and rapid rose and fell 
 His troubled voice: he did the business well. 
 
 The ward grew dark; but he was still complaining, 
 And calling out for "Dickie." "Curse the Wood! 
 "It's time to go; O Christ, and what's the good? — 
 "We'll never take it; and it's always raining." 
 
 I wondered where he'd been; then heard him shout, 
 "They snipe like hell! O Dickie, don't go out" . . 
 I fell alseep . . . next morning he was dead; 
 And some Slight Wound lay smiling on his bed. 
 
 47 
 
The Hero 
 
 "Jack fell as he'd have wished," the Mother said, 
 
 And folded up the letter that she'd read. 
 
 "The Colonel writes so nicely." Something broke 
 
 In the tired voice that quavered to a choke. 
 
 She half looked up. "We mothers are so proud 
 
 "Of our dead soldiers." Then her face was bowed. 
 
 Quietly the Brother Officer went out. 
 He'd told the poor old dear some gallant lies 
 That she would nourish all her days, no doubt. 
 For while he coughed and mumbled, her weak eyes 
 Had shone with gentle triumph, brimmed with joy. 
 Because he'd been so brave, her glorious boy. 
 
 He thought how "Jack," cold-footed, useless swine, 
 Had panicked down the trench that night the mine 
 Went up at Wicked Corner; how he'd tried 
 To get sent home; and how, at last, he died. 
 Blown to small bits. And no one seemed to care 
 Except that lonely woman with white hair. 
 48 
 
Stretcher Case 
 
 [To Edward Marsh] 
 
 He woke: the clank and racket of the train 
 Kept time with angry throbbings in his brain. 
 Then for a while he lapsed and drowsed again. 
 
 At last he lifted his bewildered eyes 
 
 And blinked, and rolled them sidelong; hills and 
 
 skies, 
 Heavily wooded, hot with August haze, 
 And, slipping backward, golden for his gaze, 
 Acres of harvest. 
 
 Feebly now he drags 
 Exhausted ego back from glooms and quags 
 And blasting tumult, terror, hurtling glare, 
 To calm and brightness, havens of sweet air. 
 
 49 
 
He sighed, confused; then drew a cautious breath; 
 This level journeying was no ride through death. 
 "If I were dead," he mused, "there'd be no 
 
 thinking — 
 "Only some plunging underworld of sinking, 
 "And hueless, shifting welter where I'd drown." 
 
 Then he remembered that his name was Brown. 
 
 But was he back in Blighty? Slow he turned, 
 Till in his heart thanksgiving leapt and burned. 
 There shone the blue serene, the prosperous land. 
 Trees, cows and hedges; skipping these, he scanned 
 Large, friendly names that change not with the year. 
 Lung Tonic, Mustard, Liver Pills and Beer. 
 
 50 
 
Conscripts 
 
 "Fall in, that awkward squad, and strike no more 
 "Attractive attitudes! Dress by the right! 
 "The luminous rich colours that you wore 
 "Have changed to hueless khaki in the night. 
 "Magic? What's magic got to do with you? 
 "There's no such thing! Blood's red and skies are 
 
 blue." 
 
 They gasped and sweated, marching up and down. 
 I drilled them till they cursed my raucous shout. 
 Love chucked his lute away and dropped his crown. 
 Rhyme got sore heels and wanted to fall out. 
 "Left, right! Press on your butts!" They looked 
 
 at me 
 Reproachful; how I longed to set them free! 
 
 51 
 
I gave them lectures on Defence, Attack; 
 They fidgeted and shuffled, yawned and sighed, 
 And boggled at my questions. Joy was slack. 
 And Wisdom gnawed his fingers, gloomy-eyed. 
 Young Fancy — how I loved him all the while — 
 Stared at his note-book with a rueful smile. 
 
 Their training done, I shipped them all to France. 
 Where most of those I'd loved too well got killed. 
 Rapture and pale Enchantment and Romance, 
 And many a sickly, slender lord who'd filled 
 My soul long since with lutanies of sin. 
 Went home, because they couldn't stand the din. 
 
 But the kind, common ones that I despised, 
 (Hardly a man of them I'd count as friend). 
 What stubborn-hearted virtues they disguised! 
 They stood and played the hero to the end, 
 Won gold and silver medals bright with bars. 
 And marched resplendent home with crowns and stars. 
 
 52 
 
The Road 
 
 The road is thronged with women; soldiers pass 
 And halt, but never see them; yet they're here — 
 A patient crowd along the sodden grass, 
 Silent, worn out with waiting, sick with fear. 
 The road goes crawling up a long hillside, 
 All ruts and stones and sludge, and the emptied dregs 
 Of battle thrown in heaps. Here where they died 
 Are stretched big-bellied horses with stiff legs; 
 And dead men, bloody-fingered from the fight, 
 Stare up at caverned darkness winking white. 
 
 You in the bomb-scorched kilt, poor sprawling Jock, 
 
 You tottered here and fell, and stumbled on. 
 
 Half dazed for want of sleep. No dream could mock 
 
 Your reeling brain with comforts lost and gone. 
 
 You did not feel her arms about your knees, 
 
 Her blind caress, her lips upon your head: 
 
 Too tired for thoughts of home and love and ease, 
 
 The road would serve you well enough for bed. 
 
 53 
 
Secret Music 
 
 I KEEP such music in my brain 
 
 No din this side of death can quell, — 
 
 Glory exulting over pain, 
 
 And beauty, garlanded m hell. 
 
 My dreaming spirit will not heed 
 The roar of guns that would destroy 
 My life that on the gloom can read 
 Proud-surging melodies of joy. 
 
 To the world's end I went, and found 
 Death in his carnival of glare; 
 But in my anguish I was crowned. 
 And music dawned above despair. 
 
 54 
 
Nimrod in September 
 
 When half the drowsy world's a-bed 
 And misty morning rises red, 
 With jollity of horn and lusty cheer, 
 Young Nimrod urges on his dwindling rout; 
 Along the yellowing coverts we can hear 
 His horse's hoofs thud hither and about: 
 In mulberry coat he rides and makes 
 Huge clamour in the sultry brakes. 
 
 55 
 
Morning Express 
 
 Along the wind-swept platform, pinched and white, 
 The travellers stand in pools of wintry light. 
 Offering themselves to morn's long, slanting arrows. 
 The train's due; porters trundle laden barrows. 
 The train steams in, volleying resplendent clouds 
 Of sun-blown vapour. Hither and about. 
 Scared people hurry, storming the doors in crowds. 
 The officials seem to waken with a shout. 
 Resolved to hoist and plunder; some to the vans 
 Leap; others rumble the milk in gleaming cans. 
 
 Boys, indolent-eyed, from baskets leaning back, 
 
 Question each face; a man with a hammer steals 
 
 Stooping from coach to coach; with clang and clack, 
 
 Touches and tests, and listens to the wheels. 
 
 Guard sounds a warning whistle, points to the clock 
 
 With brandished flag, and on his folded flock 
 56 
 
Claps the last door: the monster grunts; "Enough!" 
 Tightening his load of links with pant and puff. 
 Under the arch, then forth into blue day, 
 Glide the processional windows on their way. 
 And glimpse the stately folk who sit at ease 
 To view the world like kings taking the seas 
 In prosperous weather: drifting banners tell 
 Their progress to the counties; with them goes 
 The clamour of their journeying; while those 
 Who sped them stand to wave a last farewell. 
 
 57 
 
Noah 
 
 When old Noah started across the floods 
 Sky and water melted into one 
 Looking-glass of shifting tides and sun. 
 
 Mountain-tops were few: the ship was foul: 
 All the morn old Noah marvelled greatly 
 At this weltering world that shone so stately, 
 Drowning deep the rivers and the plains. 
 Through the stillness came a rippling breeze; 
 Noah sighed, remembering the green trees. 
 
 Clear along the morning stooped a bird, — 
 Lit beside him with a blossomed sprig. 
 Earth was saved; and Noah danced a jig. 
 
 58 
 
Policeman 
 
 Sitting in the hedge I hear 
 Through sunlit morning fresh and still 
 Sounds and voices far and near, 
 And sheep-bells under the green hill. 
 Who's a-trudging up the lane? 
 Whistling birds around him saying; 
 "Spring, spring, you're here again! 
 "April's come, and lambs are playing!" 
 
 Policeman's eye says: "Who are you?" 
 Pacing past me stifif and slow, 
 Tightly buttoned up in blue. 
 Hot and stately. And I know 
 If I jump down, and in my fun 
 Clout his red ear, then start to run, 
 He'll grab me quick and give me hell, 
 And lock me up in quod as well. 
 
 59 
 
David Cleek 
 
 I CANNOT think that Death will press his claim 
 To snuff you out or put you off your game: 
 You'll still contrive to play your steady round, 
 Though hurricanes may svs^eep the dismal ground, 
 And darkness blur the sandy-skirted green 
 Where silence gulfs the shot you strike so clean. 
 
 Saint Andrew guard your ghost, old David Cleek, 
 And send you home to Fifeshire once a week! 
 Good-fortune speed your ball upon its way 
 When Heaven decrees its mightiest Medal-Day: 
 Till crowds of Angels chant for evermore 
 The miracle of your unbeaten score; 
 And He who keeps all players in His sight. 
 Walking the royal and ancient hills of light, 
 Standing benignant at the eighteenth hole, 
 To everlasting Golf consigns your soul. 
 
 60 
 
Ancestors 
 
 Behold these jewelled, merchant Ancestors, 
 Foregathered in some chancellery of death; 
 Calm, provident, discreet, they stroke their beards 
 And move their faces slowly in the gloom, 
 And barter monstrous wealth with speech subdued, 
 Lustreless eyes and acquiescent lids. 
 
 And oft in pauses of their conference. 
 They listen to the measured breath of night's 
 Hushed sweep of wind aloft the swaying trees 
 In dimly gesturing gardens; then a voice 
 Climbs with clear mortal song half-sad for 
 
 heaven. 
 
 A silent-footed message flits and brings 
 
 The ghostly Sultan from his glimmering halls; 
 
 A shadow at the window, turbaned, vast. 
 
 He leans; and, pondering the sweet influence 
 
 That steals around him in remembered flowers. 
 
 Hears the frail music wind along the slopes. 
 
 Put forth, and fade across the whispering sea. 
 
 6i 
 
Haunted 
 
 Evening was in the wood, louring with storm. 
 A time of drought had sucked the weedy pool 
 And baked the channels; birds had done with song. 
 Thirst was a dream of fountains in the moon, 
 Or willow-music blown across the water 
 Leisurely sliding on by weir and mill. 
 
 Uneasy was the man who wandered, brooding, 
 
 His face a little whiter than the dusk. 
 
 A drone of sultry wings flicker'd in his head. 
 
 The end of sunset burning thro' the boughs 
 Died in a smear of red; exhausted hours 
 Cumber'd, and ugly sorrows hemmed him in. 
 
 He thought: "Somewhere there's thunder," as he 
 
 strove 
 
 To shake off dread; he dared not look behind him. 
 
 But stood, the sweat of horror on his face. 
 62 
 
He blundered down a path, trampling on thistles, 
 In sudden race to leave the ghostly trees. 
 And : "Soon I'll be in open fields," he thought, 
 And half remembered starlight on the meadows, 
 Scent of mown grass and voices of tired men, 
 Fading along the field-paths ; home and sleep 
 And cool-swept upland spaces, whispering leaves. 
 And far off the long churring night-jar's note. 
 
 But something in the wood, trying to daunt him, 
 
 Led him confused in circles through the brake. 
 
 He was forgetting his old wretched folly. 
 
 And freedom was his need; his throat was choking; 
 
 Barbed brambles gripped and clawed him round his 
 
 legs, 
 And he floundered over snags and hidden stumps. 
 
 Mumbling: "I will get out! I must get out!" 
 
 Butting and thrusting up the bafiling gloom. 
 
 Pausing to listen in a space 'twixt thorns. 
 
 He peers around with boding, frantic eyes. 
 
 An evil creature in the twilight looping. 
 
 Flapped blindly in his face. Beating it off, 
 
 63 
 
He screeched in terror, and straightway something 
 
 clambered 
 Heavily from an oak, and dropped, bent double, 
 To shamble at him zigzag, squat and bestial. 
 
 Headlong he charges down the wood, and falls 
 With roaring brain — agony — the snap't spark — 
 And blots of green and purple in his eyes. 
 Then the slow fingers groping on his neck, 
 And at his heart the strangling clasp of death. 
 
 H 
 
Blind 
 
 His headstrong thoughts that once in eager strife 
 Leapt sure from eye to brain and back to eye, 
 Weaving unconscious tapestries of life, 
 Are now thrust inward, dungeoned from the sky. 
 And he who has watched his world and loved it all, 
 Starless and old and blind, a sight for pity, 
 With feeble steps and fingers on the wall, 
 Gropes with his staff along the rumbling city. 
 
 65 
 
Before Day 
 
 Come in this hour to set my spirit free 
 
 When earth is no more mine though night goes out 
 
 And stretching forth these arms I cannot be 
 
 Lord of winged sunrise and dim Arcady: 
 
 When fieldward boys far off with clack and shout 
 
 From orchards scare the birds in sudden rout, 
 
 Come, ere my heart grows cold and full of doubt 
 
 In the still summer dawns that waken me. 
 
 When the first lark goes up to look for day, 
 
 And morning glimmers out of dreams, come then, 
 
 Out of the songless valleys, over gray 
 
 Wide misty lands to bring me on my way: 
 
 For I am lone, a dweller among men, 
 
 Hungered for what my heart shall never say. 
 
 66 
 
Villon 
 
 They threw me from the gates: my matted hair 
 Was dank with dungeon wetness; my spent frame 
 O'erlaid with marish agues: everywhere 
 Tortured by leaping pangs of frost and flame, 
 I was so hideous that even Lazarus there 
 In noisome rags arrayed and leprous shame, 
 Beside me set had seemed full sweet and fair, 
 And looked on me with loathing. But one came 
 Who wrapped me in his cloak and bore me in 
 Tenderly to an hostel quiet and clean, — 
 Used me with healing hands for all my needs. 
 The foul estate of my unshriven sin, 
 My long disgrace, and loveless, lecherous deeds, 
 He has put by as though they had not been. 
 
 67 
 
Goblin Revel 
 
 In gold and grey, with fleering looks of sin, 
 I watch them come; by two, by three, by four, 
 Advancing slow, with loutings they begin 
 Their woven measure widening from the door; 
 While music-men behind are straddling in 
 With flutes to brisk their feet across the floor, — 
 And jangled dulcimers, and fiddles thin 
 That taunt the twirling antic through once more. 
 
 They pause, and hushed to whispers, steal away 
 With cunning glances; silent go their shoon 
 Upon the stairs: but far away the dogs 
 Bark at some lonely farm; and haply they 
 Have clambered back into the dusky moon 
 That sinks beyond the marshes loud with frogs. 
 
 68 
 
Night-Piece 
 
 Ye hooded witches, baleful shapes that moan, 
 Quench your fantastic lanterns and be still; 
 For now the moon through heaven sails alone. 
 Shedding her peaceful rays from hill to hill. 
 The faun from out his dim and secret place 
 Draws nigh the darkling pool and from his dream 
 Half-wakens, seeing there his sylvan face 
 Reflected, and the wistful eyes that gleam. 
 
 To his cold lips he sets the pipe to blow 
 Some drowsy note that charms the listening air: 
 The dryads from their trees come down and creep 
 Near to his side; monotonous and low, 
 He plays and plays till all the woodside there 
 Stirs to the voice of everlasting sleep. 
 
 69 
 
A Wanderer 
 
 [To Hamo Thornycroft] 
 
 When Watkin shifts the burden of his cares 
 And all that irked him in his dull employ, 
 Once more become a vagrom-hearted boy, 
 He moves to roundelays and jocund airs: 
 Afield with lusty harvestmen he shares 
 Old ale and sunshine; or, with maids half-coy 
 Pays court to shadows; clowns himself with joy, 
 And shakes a leg at junketings and fairs. 
 
 Sometimes, returning down his breezy miles, 
 
 A snatch of wayward April he will bring, 
 
 Piping the daffodilly that beguiles 
 
 Foolhardy lovers in the surge of spring: 
 
 And then once more by lanes and field-path stiles 
 
 Up the green world he wanders like a king. 
 
 70 
 
October 
 
 Across the land a faint blue veil of mist 
 
 Seems hung; the woods wear yet arrayment sober, 
 
 Till frost shall make them flame; silent and whist 
 
 The dropping cherry orchards of October 
 
 Like mournful pennons hang their shrivelling leaves 
 
 Russet and orange: all things now decay; 
 
 Long since ye garnered in your autumn sheaves, 
 
 And sad the robins pipe at set of day. 
 
 Now do ye dream of Spring when greening shaws 
 Confer with the shrewd breezes, and of slopes 
 Flower-kirtled, and of April, sweetling guest; 
 Days that ye love, despite their windy flaws. 
 Since they are woven with all joys and hopes 
 Whereof ye nevermore shall be possessed. 
 
 71 
 
The Heritage 
 
 Cry out on Time that he may take away 
 Your cold philosophies that give no hint 
 Of spirit-quickened flesh; fall down and pray 
 That Death come never with a face of flint. 
 Death is our heritage; with Life we share 
 The sunlight that must own his darkening hour; 
 Within his very presence yet we dare 
 To gather gladness like a fading flower. 
 
 For even as this, our joy not long may live 
 Perfect; and most in change the heart can trace 
 The miracle of life and human things. 
 All we have held, to destiny we give; 
 Dawn glimmers on the soul-forsaken face; 
 Not we, but others, hear the bird that sings. 
 
 72 
 
An Old French Poet 
 
 When in your sober mood my body ye have laid 
 
 In sight and sound of things beloved, woodland and 
 
 stream, 
 And the green turf has hidden the poor bones ye 
 
 deem 
 No more a close companion with those rhymes we 
 
 made; 
 
 Then, if some bird should pipe, or breezes stir the 
 
 glade, 
 Thinking them for the while my voice, so let them 
 
 seem 
 A fading message from the misty shores of dream, 
 Or wheresoever, following Death, my feet have 
 
 strayed. 
 
 F 2 73 
 
Dryads 
 
 When meadows are grey with the mora, 
 In the dusk of the woods it is night; 
 The oak and the ash and the pine 
 War with the glimmer of light. 
 
 Dryads brown as the leaf 
 Move in the gloom of the glade; 
 When meadows are grey with the morn, 
 Dim night in the wood has delayed. 
 
 The cocks that crow to the land 
 Are faint and hollow and shrill: 
 Dryads as brown as the leaf 
 Whisper and hide and are still. 
 
 74 
 
Before the Battle 
 
 Music of whispering trees 
 Hushed by the broad-winged breeze 
 Where shaken water gleams; 
 And evening radiance falling 
 With reedy bird-notes calling. 
 
 bear me safe through dark, you low-voiced streams 
 
 1 have no need to pray 
 That fear may pass away; 
 
 I scorn the growl and rumble of the fight 
 
 That summons me from cool 
 
 Silence of marsh and pool, 
 
 And yellow lilies islanded in light. 
 
 O river of stars and shadows, lead me through the 
 
 night. 
 June 2Sth, jgi6. 
 
 75 
 
Morning-Land 
 
 Old English songs, you bring to me 
 A simple sweetness somewhat kin 
 To birds that through the mystery 
 Of earliest morn made tuneful din, 
 While hamlet steeples sleepily 
 At cock-crow chime out three and four, 
 Till maids get up betime and go, 
 With faces like the red sun low, 
 Clattering about the dairy floor. 
 
 76 
 
Arcady Unheeding 
 
 Shepherds go whistling on their way 
 
 In the green glory of the year; 
 
 One watches weather-signs of day; 
 
 One of his maid most dear 
 
 Dreams; and they do not hear 
 
 The birds that sing and sing; they do not see 
 
 Wide wealds of blue beyond their windy lea, 
 
 Nor blossoms red and white on every tree. 
 
 77 
 
Gibbet 
 
 You that in moonlit meadows wander, 
 See where your lover waits you yonder, 
 Who has no guineas now to squander. 
 
 There stands the lad your eyes were seeking, 
 Whose absence made your false heart fonder — 
 His limbs in rusty fetters creaking. 
 
 The yellow moon shines clear above him: 
 Go sit with him; he'll ne'er forsake you: 
 Hie to him quick and say you love him, 
 And hear what answer he will make you. 
 
 78 
 
Dream Forest 
 
 Where sunshine flecks the green, 
 Through towering woods my way 
 Goes winding all the day. 
 Scant are the flowers that bloom 
 Beneath the bosky screen 
 And cage of golden gloom. 
 Few are the birds that call, 
 Shrill-voiced and seldom seen. 
 
 Where silence masters all. 
 And light my footsteps fall, 
 The whispering runnels only 
 With blazing noon confer; 
 And comes no breeze to stir 
 The tangled thickets lonely. 
 
 79 
 
A Child's Prayer 
 
 For Morn, my dome of blue, 
 
 For Meadows, green and gay, 
 
 And Birds who love the twilight of the leaves, 
 
 Let Jesus keep me joyful when I pray. 
 
 For the big Bees that hum 
 
 And hide in bells of flowers; 
 
 For the winding roads that come 
 
 To Evening's holy door. 
 
 May Jesus bring me grateful to his arms, 
 
 And guard my innocence for evermore. 
 
 Ifc 
 
Morning Glory 
 
 In this meadow starred with spring 
 Shepherds kneel before their king. 
 Mary throned, with dreaming eyes, 
 Gowned in blue like rain-washed skies, 
 Lifts her tiny son that he 
 May behold their courtesy. 
 And green-smocked children, awed and good, 
 Bring him blossoms from the wood. 
 
 Clear the sunlit steeples chime 
 Mary's coronation-time. 
 Loud the happy children quire 
 To the golden-windowed morn; 
 While the lord of their desire 
 Sleeps below the crimson thorn. 
 
 8i 
 
To-day 
 
 This is To-day, a child in white and blue 
 Running to meet me out of Night who stilled 
 The ghost of Yester-eve; this is fair Morn 
 The mother of To-morrow. And these clouds 
 That chase the sunshine over gleaming hills 
 Are thoughts, delighting in the golden change 
 And the ceremony of their drifting state. 
 
 This is To-day. To-morrow might bring death, — 
 
 And Life, the gleeful madrigal of birds, 
 
 Be drowned in glimmer of sleep. To-day I know 
 
 How sweet it is to spend these eyes, and boast 
 
 This bubble of vistaed memory and sense 
 
 Blown by my joy aloft the glittering airs 
 
 Of heavenly peace. Oh take me to yourselves, 
 
 Earth, sky, and spirit! Let me stand within 
 
 The circle of your transience, that my voice 
 
 May thrill the lonely silences with song. 
 
 82 
 
Wonderment 
 
 Then a wind blew; 
 
 And he, who had forgot he moved 
 
 Lonely amid the green and silver morning weather, 
 
 Suddenly grew 
 
 Aware of clouds and trees 
 
 Gleaming and white and shafted, shaken together 
 
 And blown to music by the ruffling breeze. 
 
 Like flush of wings 
 
 The moment passed: he stood 
 
 Dazzled with blossom in the swaying wood; 
 
 Then he remembered how, through all swift things, 
 
 This mortal scene stands built of memories, — 
 
 Shaped by the wise 
 
 Who gazed in breathing wonderment, 
 
 And left us their brave eyes 
 
 To light the ways they went. 
 
 83 
 
Daybreak in a Garden 
 
 I HEARD the farm cocks crowing, loud, and faint, and 
 
 thin, 
 When hooded night was going and one clear planet 
 
 winked : 
 I heard shrill notes begin down the spired wood 
 
 distinct, 
 When cloudy shoals were chinked and gilt with fires 
 
 of day. 
 White-misted was the weald; the lawns were silver- 
 grey; 
 The lark his lonely field for heaven had forsaken; 
 And the wind upon its way whispered the boughs of 
 
 may, 
 And touched the nodding peony-flowers to bid them 
 
 waken. 
 
 84 
 
Companions 
 
 Leave not your bough, my slender song-bird sweet, 
 But pipe me now your roundelay complete. 
 
 Come, gentle breeze, and tarrying on your way, 
 Whisper my trees what you have seen to-day. 
 
 Stand, golden cloud, until my song be done, 
 (For he's too proud), before the face of the sun. 
 
 So one did sing, and the other breathed a story; 
 Then both took wing, and the sun stepped forth in 
 
 glory. 
 
 85 
 
A Poplar and the Moon 
 
 There stood a Poplar, tall and straight; 
 The fair, round Moon, uprisen late. 
 Made the long shadow on the grass 
 A ghostly bridge 'twixt heaven and me. 
 
 But May, with slumbrous nights, must pass; 
 
 And blustering winds will strip the tree. 
 And I've no magic to express 
 The moment of that loveliness; 
 So from these words you'll never ^uess 
 The stars and lilies I could see. 
 
 86 
 
South Wind 
 
 Where have you been, South Wind, this May-day 
 
 morning, 
 With larks aloft, or skimming with the swallow. 
 Or with blackbirds in a green, sun-glinted thicket? 
 
 Oh, I heard you like a tyrant in the valley; 
 Your ruffian haste shook the young, blossoming 
 
 orchards; 
 You clapped rude hands, hallooing round the chimney, 
 And white your pennons streamed along the river. 
 
 You have robbed the bee. South Wind, in your 
 
 adventure, 
 Blustering with gentle flowers; but I forgave you 
 When you stole to me shyly with scent of hawthorn. 
 
 87 
 
Tree and Sky 
 
 Let my soul, a shining tree, 
 Silver branches lift towards thee, 
 Where on a hallowed winter's night 
 The clear-eyed angels may alight. 
 
 And if there should be tempests in 
 
 My spirit, let them surge like din 
 
 Of noble melodies at war; 
 
 With fervour of such blades of triumph as are 
 
 Flashed in white orisons of saints who go 
 
 On shafts of glory to the ecstasies they know. 
 
 88 
 
Alone 
 
 I'VE listened: and all the sounds I heard 
 Were music,— wind, and stream, and bird. 
 With youth who sang from hill to hill 
 I've listened: my heart is hungry still. 
 
 I've looked: the morning world was green; 
 Bright roofs and towers of town I've seen, 
 And stars, wheeling through wingless night. 
 I've looked: and my soul yet longs for light. 
 
 I've thought: but in my sense survives 
 Only the impulse of those lives 
 That were my making. Hear me say, 
 "I've thought!"— and darkness hides my day. 
 
 89 
 
Storm and Sunlight 
 
 I. 
 
 In barns we crouch, and under stacks of straw, 
 Harking the storm that rides a hurtling legion 
 Up the arched sky, and speeds quick heels of panic 
 With growling thunder loosed in fork and clap 
 That echoes crashing thro' the slumbrous vault. 
 That whispering woodlands darken: vulture Gloom 
 Stoops, menacing the skeltering flocks of Light, 
 Where the gaunt shepherd shakes his gleaming staff 
 And foots with angry tidings down the slope. 
 Drip, drip; the rain steals in through soaking thatch 
 By cob-webbed rafters to the dusty floor. 
 Drums shatter in the tumult; wrathful Chaos 
 Points pealing din to the zenith, then resolves 
 Terror in wonderment with rich collapse. 
 
 9P 
 
II. 
 
 Now from drenched eaves a swallow darts to skim 
 
 The crystal stillness of an air unveiled 
 
 To tremulous blue. Raise your bowed heads, and let 
 
 Your horns adorn the sky, ye patient kine! 
 
 Haste, flashing brooks! Small, chuckling rills. 
 
 Rejoice ! 
 Be opened-eyed for Heaven, ye pools of peace! 
 Shine, rainbow hills! Dream on, fair glimpsed vale 
 In haze of drifting gold! And all sweet birds. 
 Sing out your raptures to the radiant leaves! 
 And ye, close huddling Men, come forth to stand 
 A moment simple in the gaze of God 
 That sweeps along your pastures! Breathe his might! 
 Lift your blind faces to be filled with day, 
 And share his benediction with the flowers. 
 
 91 
 
Wind in the Beechwood 
 
 The glorying forest shakes and swings with glancing 
 Of boughs that dip and strain; young, slanting 
 
 sprays 
 Beckon and shift like lissom creatures dancing, 
 While the blown beechwood streams with drifting 
 
 rays. 
 Rooted in steadfast calm, grey stems are seen 
 Like weather-beaten masts; the wood, unfurled 
 Seems as a ship with crowding sails of green, 
 That sweep across the lonely, billowing world. 
 
 O luminous and lovely! Let your flowers. 
 
 Your ageless-squadroned wings, your surge and gleam. 
 
 Drown me in quivering brightness: let me fade 
 
 In the warm, rustling music of the hours 
 
 That guard your ancient wisdom, till my dream 
 
 Moves with the chant and whisper of the glade. 
 
 92 
 
Wisdom 
 
 When Wisdom tells me that the world's a speck 
 Lost on the shoreless blue of God's To-Day. . . 
 I smile, and think, "For every man his way: 
 "The world's my ship, and I'm alone on deck!" 
 
 But when he tells me that the world's a spark 
 
 Lit in the whistling gloom of God's To-night. . . 
 
 I look within me to the edge of dark. 
 
 And dream, "The world's my field, and I'm the lark, 
 
 "Alone with upward song, alone with light!" 
 
 93 
 
The Death-Bed 
 
 He drowsed and was aware of silence heaped 
 Round him, unshaken as the steadfast walls; 
 Aqueous like floating rays of amber light, 
 Soaring and quivering in the wings of sleep, — 
 Silence and safety; and his mortal shore 
 Lipped by the inward, moonless waves of death. 
 
 Someone was holding water to his mouth. 
 He swallowed, unresisting; moaned and dropped 
 Through crimson gloom to darkness; and forgot 
 The opiate throb and ache that was his wound. 
 Water — calm, sliding green above the weir; 
 Water — a sky-lit alley for his boat. 
 Bird-voiced, and bordered with reflected flowers 
 And shaken hues of summer: drifting down. 
 
 He dipped contented oars, and sighed, and slept. 
 94 
 
Night, with a gust of wind, was in the ward, 
 Blowing the curtain to a glimmering curve. 
 Night. He was blind ; he could not see the stars 
 Glinting among the wraiths of wandering cloud ; 
 Queer blots of colour, purple, scarlet, green, 
 Flickered and faded in his drowning eyes. 
 
 Rain; he could hear it rustling through the dark; 
 Fragrance and passionless music woven as one; 
 Warm rain on drooping roses; pattering showers 
 That soak the woods ; not the harsh rain that sweeps 
 Behind the thunder, but a trickling peace 
 Gently and slowly washing life away. 
 
 He stirred, shifting his body; then the pain 
 Leaped like a prowling beast, and gripped and tore 
 His groping dreams with grinding claws and fangs. 
 But someone was beside him; soon he lay 
 Shuddering because that evil thing had passed. 
 And death, who'd stepped toward him, paused 
 
 and stared. 
 
Light many lamps and gather round his bed. 
 Lend him your eyes, warm blood, and will to live. 
 Speak to him; rouse him; you may save him yet. 
 He's young; he hated war; how should he die 
 When cruel old campaigners win safe through? 
 
 But Death replied: "I choose him." So he went, 
 And there was silence in the summer night; 
 Silence and safety; and the veils of sleep. 
 Then, far away, the thudding of the guns. 
 
 96 
 
The Last Meeting 
 
 I. 
 
 Because the night was falling warm and still 
 
 Upon a golden day at April's end, 
 
 I thought; I will go up the hill once more 
 
 To find the face of him that I have lost, 
 
 And speak with him before his ghost has flown 
 
 Far from the earth that mijght not keep him long. 
 
 So down the road I went, pausing to see 
 How slow the dusk drew on, and how the folk 
 Loitered about their doorways, well-content 
 With the fine weather and the waxing year. 
 The miller's house, that glimmered with grey walls, 
 Turned me aside; and for a while I leaned 
 Along the tottering rail beside the bridge 
 To watch the dripping mill-wheel green with damp. 
 
 97 
 
The miller peered at me with shadowed eyes 
 And pallid face: I could not hear his voice 
 For the insistent water. He was old : 
 His days went round with the unhurrying wheel. 
 
 Moving along the street, each side I saw 
 The humble, kindly folk in lamp-lit rooms; 
 Children at table; simple, homely wives; 
 Strong, grizzled men; and soldiers back from war, 
 Scaring the gaping elders with loud talk. 
 
 Soon all the jumbled roofs were down the hill, 
 
 And I was turning up the grassy lane 
 
 That goes to the big, empty house that stands 
 
 Above the town, half-hid by towering trees. 
 
 I looked below and saw the glinting lights : 
 
 I heard the treble cries of bustling life, 
 
 And mirth, and scolding; and the grind of wheels. 
 
 An engine whistled, piercing-shrill, and called 
 
 High echoes from the sombre slopes afar; 
 
 Then a long line of trucks began to move. 
 98 
 
It was quite still; the columned chestnuts stood 
 Dark in their noble canopies of leaves. 
 I thought: "A little longer I'll delay, 
 "And then he'll be more glad to hear my feet, 
 "And with low laughter ask me why I'm late. 
 "The place will be too dim to show his eyes ; 
 "But he will loom above me like a tree, 
 "With lifted arms and body tall and strong." 
 
 There stood the empty house; a ghostly hulk 
 
 Becalmed and huge, massed in the mantling dark, 
 
 As builders left it when quick-shattering war 
 
 Leapt upon France and called her men to fight. 
 
 Lightly along the terraces I trod, 
 
 Crunching the rubble till I found the door 
 
 That gaped in twilight, framing inward gloom. 
 
 An owl flew out from under the high eaves 
 
 To vanish secretly among the firs. 
 
 Where lofty boughs netted the gleam of stars. 
 
 I stumbled in; the dusty floors were strewn 
 
 With cumbering piles of planks and props and beams; 
 
 99 
 
Tall windows gapped the walls; the place was free 
 To every searching gust and jousting gale; 
 But now they slept: I was afraid to speak, 
 And heavily the shadows crowded in. 
 
 I called him, once; then listened: nothing moved: 
 
 Only my thumping beat out the time. 
 
 Whispering his name, I groped from room to room. 
 
 Quite empty was that house; it could not hold 
 His human ghost, remembered in the love 
 That strove in vain to be companioned still. 
 
 II. 
 
 Blindly I sought the woods that I had known 
 
 So beautiful with morning when I came 
 
 Amazed with spring that wove the hazel copse 
 
 With misty raiment of awakening green 
 
 I found a holy dimness, and the peace 
 
 Of sanctuary, austerely built of trees. 
 
 And wonder stooping from the tranquil sky. 
 
 lOO 
 
Ah! but there was no need to call his name. 
 
 He was beside me now, as swift as light. 
 
 I knew him crushed to earth in scentless flowers, 
 
 And lifted in the rapture of dark pines.^ 
 
 "For now," he said, "my spirit has more eyes 
 
 "Than heaven has stars; and they are lit by love. 
 
 My body is the magic of the world. 
 
 And dawn and sunset flame with my spilt blood. 
 
 My breath is the great wind, and I am filled 
 
 With molten power and surge of the bright waves 
 
 That chant my doom along the ocean's edge. 
 
 "Look in the faces of the flowers and find 
 
 The innocence that shrives me; stoop to the stream 
 
 That you may share the wisdom of my peace. 
 
 For talking water travels undismayed. 
 
 The luminous willows lean to it with tales 
 
 Of the young earth; and swallows dip their wings 
 
 Where showering hawthorn strews the lanes of light. 
 
 "I can remember summer in one thought 
 
 ^Of wind-swept green, and deeps of melting blue, 
 
 lOl 
 
And scent of limes in bloom; and I can hear 
 Distinct the early mower in the grass, 
 Whetting his blade along some morn of June. 
 
 "For I was born to the round world's delight, 
 
 And knowledge of enfolding motherhood, 
 
 Whose tenderness, that shines through constant toil, 
 
 Gathers the naked children to her knees. 
 
 In death I can remember how she came 
 
 To kiss me while I slept; still I can share 
 
 The glee of childhood; and the fleeting gloom 
 
 When all my flowers were washed with rain of tears. 
 
 "I triumph in the choruses of birds. 
 
 Bursting like April buds in gyres of song, 
 
 My meditations are tke blaze of noon 
 
 On silent woods where glory burns the leaves. 
 
 I have shared breathless vigils; I have slaked 
 
 The thirst of my desires in bounteous rain 
 
 Pouring and splashing downward through the dark. 
 
 Loud storm has roused me with its winking glare, 
 1 02 
 
And voice of doom that crackles overhead. 
 I have been tired and watchful, craving rest, 
 Till the slow-footed hours have touched my brows 
 And laid me on the breast of sundering sleep." 
 
 III. 
 
 I know that he is lost among the stars, 
 And may return no more but in their light. 
 Though his hushed voice may call me in the stir 
 Of whispering trees I shall not understand. 
 Men many not speak with stillness; and the joy 
 Of brooks that leap and tumble down green hills 
 Is faster than their feet; and all their songs 
 Can win no meaning from the talk of birds. 
 
 My heart is fooled with fancies, being wise; 
 For fancy is the gleaming of wet flowers 
 When the hid sun looks forth with golden stare. 
 Thus, when I find new loveliness to praise, 
 
 iQ3 
 
And things long-known shine out in sudden grace, 
 
 Then will I think: ^'He moves before me now." 
 
 So he will never come but in delight; 
 
 And, as it was in life, his name shall be 
 
 Wonder awaking in a summer dawn, 
 
 And youth, that dying, touched my lips to song. 
 
 II 
 
 104 
 
A Letter Home 
 
 [To Robert Graves] 
 
 I. 
 
 Here I'm sitting in the gloom 
 Of my quiet attic room. 
 France goes rolling all around, 
 Fledged with forest May has crowned. 
 And I puff my pipe, calm-hearted, 
 Thinking how the fighting started, 
 Wondering when we'll ever end it, 
 Back to Hell with Kaiser send it, 
 Gag the noise, pack up and go, 
 Clockwork soldiers in a row. 
 I've got better things to do 
 Than to waste my time on you. 
 
 II. 
 
 Robert, when I drowse to-night. 
 Skirting lawns of sleep to chase 
 
 105 
 
Shifting dreams in mazy light, 
 Somewhere then I'll see your face 
 Turning back to bid me follow 
 Where I wag my arms and hollo, 
 Over hedges hasting after 
 Crooked smile and baffling laughter, 
 Running tireless, floating, leaping, 
 Down your web-hung woods and valleys. 
 Garden glooms and hornbeam alleys. 
 Where the glowworm stars are peeping. 
 Till I find you, quiet as stone 
 On a hill-top all alone. 
 Staring outward, gravely pondering 
 Jumbled leagues of hillock-wandering. 
 
 III. 
 
 You and I have walked together 
 
 In the starving winter weather. 
 
 We've been glad because we knew 
 
 Time's too short and friends are few. 
 lo6 
 
We've been sad because we missed 
 One whose yellow head was kissed 
 By the gods, who thought about him 
 Till they couldn't do without him. 
 Now he's here again; I've seen 
 Soldier David dressed in green, 
 Standing in a wood that swings 
 To the madrigal he sings. 
 He's come back, all mirth and glory, 
 Like the prince in a fairy story. 
 Winter called him far away; 
 Blossoms bring him home with May. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Well, I know you'll swear it's true 
 That you found him decked in blue 
 Striding up through morning-land 
 With a cloud on either hand. 
 Out in Wales, you'll say, he marches 
 Arm-in-arm with oaks and larches; 
 
 107 
 
Hides all night in hilly nooks, 
 Laughs at dawn in tumbling brooks. 
 Yet, it's certain, here he teaches 
 Outpost-schemes to groups of beeches. 
 And I'm sure, as here I stand, 
 That he shines through every land, 
 That he sings in every place 
 Where v^e're thinking of his face. 
 
 V. 
 
 Robert, there's a v^ar in France; 
 Everywhere men bang and blunder. 
 Sweat and swear and worship Chance, 
 Creep and blink through cannon thunder. 
 Rifles crack and bullets flick. 
 Sing and hum like hornet-swarms. 
 Bones are smashed and buried quick. 
 Yet, through stunning battle storms, 
 All the while I watch the spark 
 Lit to guide me; for I know 
 
 io8 
 
Dreams will triumph, through the dark 
 
 Scowls above me where I go. 
 
 You can hear me; you can mingle 
 
 Radiant folly with my jingle. 
 
 War's a joke for me and you 
 
 While we know such dreams are true! 
 
 109 
 
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