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diff --git a/old/51907-0.txt b/old/51907-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 42cc4b6..0000000 --- a/old/51907-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,1336 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Verses of a V.A.D., by Vera Mary Brittain - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Verses of a V.A.D. - -Author: Vera Mary Brittain - -Release Date: May 1, 2016 [EBook #51907] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VERSES OF A V.A.D. *** - - - - -Produced by MWS, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - - - - - - - VERSES OF A V.A.D. - - - - - VERSES OF A V.A.D - - BY - - VERA M. BRITTAIN - - (V.A.D. LONDON/268, B.R.C.S.) - - FOREWORD BY MARIE CONNOR LEIGHTON - - ERSKINE MACDONALD, LTD. - - LONDON, W.C.1 - - _All Rights Reserved_ - - _First published August 1918_ - - - DEDICATED - - TO THE MEMORY OF - - ROLAND AUBREY LEIGHTON - - LIEUTENANT, WORCESTERSHIRE REGIMENT - - DIED OF WOUNDS NEAR HÉBUTERNE - - DECEMBER 23RD, 1915 - - - “Good-bye, sweet friend. What matters it that you - Have found Love’s death in joy, and I in sorrow? - For hand in hand, just as we used to do, - We two shall live our passionate poem through - On God’s serene to-morrow.” - R. A. L. - - - - -FOREWORD - - -THESE poems, by a writer for whom I have literary hopes, belong very -clearly to that new and vigorous type of poetry which has sprung from -the stress of the last few years and has its root in things done and -suffered rather than in things merely imagined. - -Until lately our very belief in the saying that the poet is born and not -made proved that we had completely accepted poetry as coming only from -within, spun, as it were, out of our inner consciousness, and either -quite unhelped, or else only partially helped, by active experiences -from without. We have always understood, of course, that such an -experience as, for instance, the sudden flashing upon us of a magnetic -face as a stranger passes in the street might set aglow a train of -thought that would quicken and melt into feeling, and the feeling would, -in turn, need--and find--expression in poetry. - -So far as this we have admitted that outward occurrences in the course -of our quickly flying days can become a source of poetical inspiration. -But, in spite of the pointing finger of Kipling, most of us clung -desperately to the verse that had its sole origin in imaginative emotion -until the blaze of war in the world illumined our souls and showed all -of us that out of our simplest practical work can be struck sparks of -real and great and rare divine fire. - -All the poems in this little book are the outcome of things very deeply -felt. It is very difficult for me to write of them because where there -is pain uttered in them, it has almost always been my pain as well as -the author’s. One or two of the sonnets condense the expression of -losses that have meant a life’s upheaval. One or two, again, are -practically a concrete record of simple human things observed and -suffered and of duty strenuously done. Here there is no leisured -dreaming, but sheer experience, solid and stored up, like the honey that -a bee’s labour has stored. - -But this practical quality, while it has so much that makes it rich and -valuable, has also the one conspicuous disadvantage that the work is -often done under conditions of strain and turmoil that tell against -perfection of method. Some of these _Verses of a V.A.D._ were written in -almost breathless intervals of severe and devoted duty. The poem -entitled “The German Ward” is especially an example of this. In such -circumstances, it is difficult to achieve any literary ornamentation and -least of all that particular kind of simpleness which is the highest -form of finished art. In the case of several of the poems, both these -qualities have been achieved; yet, because of the difficulties, I make -an appeal for considerateness and tender sympathy in judging these first -shy flowers of the heart and mind of a young girl who has worked -unceasingly and self-forgettingly for the good of others since the days -of stress began, and who in her personal destiny has suffered as, I -hope, very few have suffered. - -MARIE CONNOR LEIGHTON. - - - - -CONTENTS - - - PAGE - -AUGUST 1914 15 - -ST. PANCRAS STATION, AUGUST 1915 16 - -TO A FALLEN IDOL 17 - -TO MONSEIGNEUR 18 - -THE ONLY SON 19 - -PERHAPS---- 20 - -A MILITARY HOSPITAL 21 - -LOOKING WESTWARD 22 - -THEN AND NOW 24 - -MAY MORNING 25 - -THE TWO TRAVELLERS 27 - -ROUNDEL 28 - -THE SISTERS BURIED AT LEMNOS 29 - -IN MEMORIAM: G.R.Y.T. 31 - -A PARTING WORD 32 - -TO MY BROTHER 33 - -SIC TRANSIT---- 34 - -TO THEM 35 - -OXFORD REVISITED 36 - -THAT WHICH REMAINETH 37 - -THE GERMAN WARD 38 - -THE TROOP-TRAIN 40 - -TO MY WARD-SISTER 41 - -TO ANOTHER SISTER 42 - -“VENGEANCE IS MINE” 43 - -WAR 44 - -THE LAST POST 45 - -THE ASPIRANT 46 - -Acknowledgments are due to the Editor of _The Oxford Magazine_, in which -“May Morning” and “The Sisters buried at Lemnos” were first published. - - - - - AUGUST 1914 - - - GOD said, “Men have forgotten Me; - The souls that sleep shall wake again, - And blinded eyes must learn to see.” - - So since redemption comes through pain - He smote the earth with chastening rod, - And brought Destruction’s lurid reign; - - But where His desolation trod - The people in their agony - Despairing cried, “There is no God.” - - SOMERVILLE COLLEGE, - OXFORD. - - - - - ST. PANCRAS STATION, AUGUST 1915 - - - ONE long, sweet kiss pressed close upon my lips, - One moment’s rest on your swift-beating heart, - And all was over, for the hour had come - For us to part. - - A sudden forward motion of the train, - The world grown dark although the sun still shone, - One last blurred look through aching tear-dimmed eyes-- - And you were gone. - - - - - TO A FALLEN IDOL - - - O YOU who sought to rend the stars from Heaven - But rent instead your too-ambitious heart, - Know that with those to whom Love’s joy is given - You have not, nor can ever have, a part. - - A nation’s loyalty might have been your glory, - And men have blessed your name from shore to shore, - But you have set the seal upon your story, - And must go hence, alone for evermore. - - - - - TO MONSEIGNEUR - -(R.A.L., LIEUTENANT, WORCESTERS) - - - NONE shall dispute Your kingship, nor declare - Another could have held the place You hold, - For though he brought me finer gifts than gold, - And laid before my feet his heart made bare - Of all but love for me, and sighed despair - If I but feigned my favours to withhold, - And would repudiate as sadly cold - The proud and lofty manner that You wear, - - He would not be my pure and stainless knight - Of heart without reproach or hint of fear, - Who walks unscathed amid War’s sordid ways - By base desire or bloodshed’s grim delight, - But ever holds his hero’s honour dear-- - Roland of Roncesvalles in modern days. - - 1ST LONDON GENERAL HOSPITAL, - _November 1915._ - - - - - THE ONLY SON - - - THE storm beats loud, and you are far away, - The night is wild, - On distant fields of battle breaks the day, - My little child? - - I sought to shield you from the least of ills - In bygone years, - I soothed with dreams of manhood’s far-off hills - Your baby fears, - - But could not save you from the shock of strife; - With radiant eyes - You seized the sword and in the path of Life - You sought your prize. - - The tempests rage, but you are fast asleep; - Though winds be wild - They cannot break your endless slumbers deep, - My little child. - - - - - PERHAPS---- - -(TO R.A.L. DIED OF WOUNDS IN FRANCE, DECEMBER 23RD, 1915) - - - PERHAPS some day the sun will shine again, - And I shall see that still the skies are blue, - And feel once more I do not live in vain, - Although bereft of You. - - Perhaps the golden meadows at my feet - Will make the sunny hours of Spring seem gay, - And I shall find the white May blossoms sweet, - Though You have passed away. - - Perhaps the summer woods will shimmer bright, - And crimson roses once again be fair, - And autumn harvest fields a rich delight, - Although You are not there. - - Perhaps some day I shall not shrink in pain - To see the passing of the dying year, - And listen to the Christmas songs again, - Although You cannot hear. - - But, though kind Time may many joys renew, - There is one greatest joy I shall not know - Again, because my heart for loss of You - Was broken, long ago. - - 1ST LONDON GENERAL HOSPITAL, - _February 1916._ - - - - - A MILITARY HOSPITAL - - - A MASS of human wreckage, drifting in - Borne on a blood-red tide, - Some never more to brave the stormy sea - Laid reverently aside, - And some with love restored to sail again - For regions far and wide. - - 1ST LONDON GENERAL HOSPITAL, _1916_. - - - - - LOOKING WESTWARD - - “For a while the quiet body - Lies with feet toward the Morn.” - HYMN 499, A. & M. - - - WHEN I am dead, lay me not looking East, - But towards the verge where daylight sinks to rest, - For my Beloved, who fell in War’s dark year, - Lies in a foreign meadow, facing West. - - He does not see the Heavens flushed with dawn, - But flaming through the sunset’s dying gleam; - He is not dazzled by the Morning Star, - But Hesper soothes him with her gentle beam. - - He faces not the guns he thrilled to hear, - Nor sees the skyline red with fires of Hell; - He looks for ever towards that dear home land - He loved, but bade a resolute farewell. - - So would I, when my hour has come for sleep, - Lie watching where the twilight shades grow grey; - Far sooner would I share with him the Night - Than pass without him to the Splendid Day. - - - - - THEN AND NOW - -“πάντα ῤει καἰ ούδένα μένει” - - - ONCE the black pine-trees on the mountain side, - The river dancing down the valley blue, - And strange brown grasses swaying with the tide, - All spoke to me of you. - - But now the sullen streamlet creeping slow, - The moaning tree-tops dark above my head, - The weeds where once the grasses used to grow - Tell me that you are dead. - - - - - MAY MORNING - -(_Note._--At Oxford on May 1st a Latin hymn is sung at sunrise by the -Magdalen choristers from the top of the tower.) - - - THE rising sun shone warmly on the tower, - Into the clear pure Heaven the hymn aspired - Piercingly sweet. This was the morning hour - When life awoke with Spring’s creative power, - And the old City’s grey to gold was fired. - - Silently reverent stood the noisy throng; - Under the bridge the boats in long array - Lay motionless. The choristers’ far song - Faded upon the breeze in echoes long. - Swiftly I left the bridge and rode away. - - Straight to a little wood’s green heart I sped, - Where cowslips grew, beneath whose gold withdrawn - The fragrant earth peeped warm and richly red; - All trace of Winter’s chilling touch had fled, - And song-birds ushered in the year’s bright morn. - - I had met Love not many days before, - And as in blissful mood I listening lay - None ever had of joy so full a store. - I thought that Spring must last for evermore, - For I was young and loved, and it was May. - - * * * * * - - Now it is May again, and sweetly clear - Perhaps once more aspires the Latin hymn - From Magdalen tower, but not for me to hear. - I toil far distant, for a darker year - Shadows the century with menace grim. - - I walk in ways where pain and sorrow dwell, - And ruin such as only War can bring, - Where each lives through his individual hell, - Fraught with remembered horror none can tell, - And no more is there glory in the Spring. - - And I am worn with tears, for he I loved - Lies cold beneath the stricken sod of France; - Hope has forsaken me, by Death removed, - And Love that seemed so strong and gay has proved - A poor crushed thing, the toy of cruel Chance. - - Often I wonder, as I grieve in vain, - If when the long, long future years creep slow, - And War and tears alike have ceased to reign, - I ever shall recapture, once again, - The mood of that May morning, long ago. - - 1ST LONDON GENERAL HOSPITAL, - _May 1916._ - - - - - THE TWO TRAVELLERS - - - Beware! - You met two travellers in the town - Who promised you that they would take you down - The valley far away - To some strange carnival this Summer’s day. - Take care, - Lest in the crowded street - They hurry past you with forgetting feet, - And leave you standing there. - - - - - ROUNDEL - - (“DIED OF WOUNDS”) - - - BECAUSE you died, I shall not rest again, - But wander ever through the lone world wide, - Seeking the shadow of a dream grown vain - Because you died. - - I shall spend brief and idle hours beside - The many lesser loves that still remain, - But find in none my triumph and my pride; - - And Disillusion’s slow corroding stain - Will creep upon each quest but newly tried, - For every striving now shall nothing gain - Because you died. - - FRANCE, - _February 1918._ - - - - - THE SISTERS BURIED AT LEMNOS - - (“FIDELIS AD EXTREMUM”) - - - O GOLDEN Isle set in the deep blue Ocean, - With purple shadows flitting o’er thy crest, - I kneel to thee in reverent devotion - Of some who on thy bosom lie at rest! - - Seldom they enter into song or story; - Poets praise the soldier’s might and deeds of War, - But few exalt the Sisters, and the glory - Of women dead beneath a distant star. - - No armies threatened in that lonely station, - They fought not fire or steel or ruthless foe, - But heat and hunger, sickness and privation, - And Winter’s deathly chill and blinding snow. - - Till mortal frailty could endure no longer - Disease’s ravages and climate’s power, - In body weak, but spirit ever stronger, - Courageously they stayed to meet their hour. - - No blazing tribute through the wide world flying, - No rich reward of sacrifice they craved, - The only meed of their victorious dying - Lives in the hearts of humble men they saved. - - Who when in light the Final Dawn is breaking, - Still faithful, though the world’s regard may cease, - Will honour, splendid in triumphant waking, - The souls of women, lonely here at peace. - - O golden Isle with purple shadows falling - Across thy rocky shore and sapphire sea, - I shall not picture these without recalling - The Sisters sleeping on the heart of thee! - - H.M.H.S. “BRITANNIC,” MUDROS, - _October 1916._ - - - - - IN MEMORIAM: G.R.Y.T. - -(KILLED IN ACTION, APRIL 23RD, 1917) - - - I SPOKE with you but seldom, yet there lay - Some nameless glamour in your written word, - And thoughts of you rose often--longings stirred - By dear remembrance of the sad blue-grey - That dwelt within your eyes, the even sway - Of your young god-like gait, the rarely heard - But frank bright laughter, hallowed by a Day - That made of Youth Right’s offering to the sword. - - So now I ponder, since your day is done, - Ere dawn was past, on all you meant to me, - And all the more you might have come to be, - And wonder if some state, beyond the sun - And shadows here, may yet completion see - Of intimacy sweet though scarce begun. - - MALTA, - _May 1917._ - - - - - A PARTING WORD - - (TO A FORTUNATE FRIEND) - - - IF you should be too happy in your days - And never know an hour of vain regret, - Do not forget - That still the shadows darken all my ways. - - If sunshine sweeter still should light your years, - And you lose nought of all you dearly prize, - Turn not your eyes - From my steep track of anguish and of tears. - - And if perhaps your love of me is less - Than I with all my need of you would choose, - Do not refuse - To love enough to lighten my distress. - - And if the future days should parting see - Of our so different paths that lately met, - Remember yet - Those days of storm you weathered through with me. - - MALTA, - _May 1917._ - - - - - TO MY BROTHER[A] - - (IN MEMORY OF JULY 1ST, 1916) - - - YOUR battle-wounds are scars upon my heart, - Received when in that grand and tragic “show” - You played your part - Two years ago, - - And silver in the summer morning sun - I see the symbol of your courage glow-- - That Cross you won - Two years ago. - - Though now again you watch the shrapnel fly, - And hear the guns that daily louder grow, - As in July - Two years ago, - - May you endure to lead the Last Advance - And with your men pursue the flying foe - As once in France - Two years ago. - - [A] Captain E. H. Brittain, M.C. Written four days before his death - in action in the Austrian offensive on the Italian Front, June 15th, - 1918. - - - - - SIC TRANSIT---- - -(V.R., DIED OF WOUNDS, 2ND LONDON GENERAL HOSPITAL, CHELSEA, JUNE 9TH, -1917) - - - I AM so tired. - The dying sun incarnadines the West, - And every window with its gold is fired, - And all I loved the best - Is gone, and every good that I desired - Passes away, an idle hopeless quest; - Even the Highest whereto I aspired - Has vanished with the rest. - I am so tired. - - LONDON, - _June 1917._ - - - - - TO THEM - - - I HEAR your voices in the whispering trees, - I see your footprints on each grassy track, - Your laughter echoes gaily down the breeze-- - But you will not come back. - - The twilight skies are tender with your smile, - The stars look down with eyes for which I yearn, - I dream that you are with me all the while-- - But you will not return. - - The flowers are gay in gardens that you knew, - The woods you loved are sweet with summer rain, - The fields you trod are empty now, but you - Will never come again. - - _June 1917._ - - - - - OXFORD REVISITED - - - THERE’S a gleam of sun on the grey old street - Where we used to walk in the Oxford days, - And dream that the world lay beneath our feet - In the dawn of a summer morning. - - Now the years have passed, and it’s we who lie - Crushed under the burden of world-wide woe, - But the misty magic will never die - From the dawn of an Oxford morning. - - And the end delays, and perhaps no more - I shall see the spires of my youth’s delight, - But they’ll gladden my eyes as in days of yore - At the dawn of Eternal Morning. - - _June 1917._ - - - - - THAT WHICH REMAINETH - -(IN MEMORY OF CAPTAIN E. H. BRITTAIN, M.C.) - - - ONLY the thought of a merry smile, - The wistful dreaming of sad brown eyes-- - A brave young warrior, face aglow - With the light of a lofty enterprise. - - Only the hope of a gallant heart, - The steady strife for a deathless crown, - In Memory’s treasures, radiant now - With the gleam of a goal beyond renown. - - Only the tale of a dream fulfilled, - A strenuous day and a well-fought fight, - A fearless leader who laughed at Death, - And the fitting end of a gentle knight. - - Only a Cross on a mountain side, - The close of a journey short and rough, - A sword laid down and a stainless shield-- - No more--and yet, is it not enough? - - - - - THE GERMAN WARD - - (“INTER ARMA CARITAS”) - - - WHEN the years of strife are over and my recollection fades - Of the wards wherein I worked the weeks away, - I shall still see, as a vision rising ’mid the War-time shades, - The ward in France where German wounded lay. - - I shall see the pallid faces and the half-suspicious eyes, - I shall hear the bitter groans and laboured breath, - And recall the loud complaining and the weary tedious cries, - And sights and smells of blood and wounds and death. - - I shall see the convoy cases, blanket-covered on the floor, - And watch the heavy stretcher-work begin, - And the gleam of knives and bottles through the open theatre door, - And the operation patients carried in. - - I shall see the Sister standing, with her form of youthful grace, - And the humour and the wisdom of her smile, - And the tale of three years’ warfare on her thin expressive face-- - The weariness of many a toil-filled while. - - I shall think of how I worked for her with nerve and heart and mind, - And marvelled at her courage and her skill, - And how the dying enemy her tenderness would find - Beneath her scornful energy of will. - - And I learnt that human mercy turns alike to friend or foe - When the darkest hour of all is creeping nigh, - And those who slew our dearest, when their lamps were burning low, - Found help and pity ere they came to die. - - So, though much will be forgotten when the sound of War’s alarms - And the days of death and strife have passed away, - I shall always see the vision of Love working amidst arms - In the ward wherein the wounded prisoners lay. - - FRANCE, - _September 1917._ - - - - - THE TROOP-TRAIN - - (FRANCE, 1917) - - - AS we came down from Amiens, - And they went up the line, - They waved their careless hands to us, - And cheered the Red Cross sign. - - And often I have wondered since, - Repicturing that train, - How many of those laughing souls - Came down the line again. - - - - - TO MY WARD-SISTER - - NIGHT DUTY, DECEMBER 1917 - - - THROUGH the night-watches of our House of Sighs - In capable serenity of mind - You steadily achieve the tasks designed - With calm, half-smiling, interested eyes; - Though all-unknowing, confidently wise - Concerning pain you never felt, you find - Content from uneventful years arise - As you toil on, mechanically kind. - - So thus far have your smooth days passed, but when - The tempest none escape shall cloud your sky, - And Life grow dark around you, through your pain - You’ll learn the meaning of your mercy then - To those who blessed you as you passed them by, - Nor seek to tread the untroubled road again. - - FRANCE. - - - - - TO ANOTHER SISTER - - - I KNEW that you had suffered many things, - For I could see your eyes would often weep - Through bitter midnight hours when others sleep; - And in your smile the lurking scorn that springs - From cruel knowledge of a love, once deep, - Grown gradually cold, until the stings - Pierce mercilessly of a past that clings - Undying to your lonely path and steep. - - So, loved and honoured leader, I would pray - That hidden future days may hold in store - Some solace for your yearning even yet, - And in some joy to come you may forget - The burdened toil you will not suffer more, - And see the War-time shadows fade away. - - FRANCE, _1918_. - - - - -“VENGEANCE IS MINE” - - (IN MEMORY OF THE SISTERS WHO DIED IN THE GREAT AIR RAID UPON - HOSPITALS AT ÉTAPLES) - - - WHO shall avenge us for anguish unnamable, - Rivers of scarlet and crosses of grey, - Terror of night-time and blood-lust untamable, - Hate without pity where broken we lay? - - How could we help them, in agony calling us, - Those whom we laboured to comfort and save, - How still their moaning, whose hour was befalling us, - Crushed in a horror more dark than the grave? - - Burning of canvas and smashing of wood above-- - Havoc of Mercy’s toil--shall He forget - Us that have fallen, Who numbers in gracious love - Each tiny creature whose life is man’s debt? - - Will He not hear us, though speech is now failing us-- - Voices too feeble to utter a cry? - Shall they not answer, the foemen assailing us, - Women who suffer and women who die? - - Who shall avenge us for anguish unnamable, - Rivers of scarlet and crosses of grey, - Terror of night-time and blood-lust untamable, - Hate without pity where broken we lay? - - - - - WAR - -(THE GREAT GERMAN OFFENSIVE, MARCH--MAY 1918) - - - A NIGHT of storm and thunder crashing by, - A bitter night of tempest and of rain-- - Then calm at dawn beneath a wind-swept sky, - And broken flowers that will not bloom again. - - An age of Death and Agony and Tears, - A cruel age of woe unguessed before-- - Then peace to close the weary storm-wrecked years, - And broken hearts that bleed for evermore. - - FRANCE. - - - - - THE LAST POST - - - THE stars are shining bright above the camps, - The bugle calls float skyward, faintly clear; - Over the hill the mist-veiled motor lamps - Dwindle and disappear. - - The notes of day’s good-bye arise and blend - With the low murmurous hum from tree and sod, - And swell into that question at the end - They ask each night of God-- - - Whether the dead within the burial ground - Will ever overthrow their crosses grey, - And rise triumphant from each lowly mound - To greet the dawning day. - - Whether the eyes which battle sealed in sleep - Will open to reveillé once again, - And forms, once mangled, into rapture leap, - Forgetful of their pain. - - But still the stars above the camp shine on, - Giving no answer for our sorrow’s ease, - And one more day with the Last Post has gone - Dying upon the breeze. - - ÉTAPLES, _1918_. - - - - - THE ASPIRANT - - (A PLEA) - - - BECAUSE I dare to stand outside the gate - Of that high temple wherein Fame abides, - And loudly knock, too eager to await - Whate’er betides, - - May God forgive, since He alone can see - The joys that others have but I must miss, - For how shall Compensation come to me - If not through this? 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