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If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this ebook. - -Title: Severn & Somme - -Author: Ivor Gurney - -Release Date: November 27, 2020 [EBook #63895] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at - http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images - available at The Internet Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SEVERN & SOMME *** - - - - - SEVERN & SOMME - - - - - SEVERN & SOMME - - BY - - IVOR GURNEY - - Private, of the Gloucesters - - - LONDON: SIDGWICK & JACKSON, LTD. - 3 ADAM STREET, ADELPHI, W.C.2. 1917 - - _First published in 1917_ - - - _All rights reserved_ - - - - - TO - - MARGARET HUNT - - - - -PREFACE - - -This book stands dedicated to one only of my friends, but there are many -others to whom I would willingly dedicate singly and in state, if that -did not mean the writing of forty books of verse and dedications--a -terrible thing for all concerned. - -So that, under the single name and sign of homage and affection, I would -desire such readers as come to me to add also: - -To my father and mother; F. W. Harvey (also a Gloucestershire lad); Miss -Marion Scott, whose criticism has been so useful, and she so kind, in -spite of my continued refusal to alter a word of anything; the Vicar of -Twigworth; Herbert Howells (and this is not the last time you will hear -of him); Mr. Hilaire Belloc, whose “Path to Rome” has been my trench -companion, with “The Spirit of Man”; Mr. Wilfred Gibson, author of -“Friends,” a great little book; many others also, including Shakespeare -and Bach, both friends of mine; and, last but not least, my comrades of -two platoons of the-/-[A] Gloucesters, who so often have wondered -whether I were crazy or not. Let them draw their own conclusions now, -for the writing of this book it was that so distracted me.... This is a -long list, and even now does not include old Mrs. Poyner, who was so -jolly and long-suffering, nor my boat _Dorothy_, now idle in the mud; -though a poet sang of her full of glory at Framilode. - -[A] The publication of Battalion Nos. being strictly forbidden by -the Military Authorities, we have to leave the identification of the -platoons referred to by Mr. Gurney to those whom it concerns.--S. & J., -LTD. - -Even as I write the list becomes fuller, farther extended, yet a soldier -must face pain, and so it remains shorter by far than might be. - -I fear that those who buy the book (or even borrow), to get information -about the Gloucesters will be disappointed. Most of the book is -concerned with a person named Myself, and the rest with my county, -Gloucester, that whether I die or live stays always with me--being in -itself so beautiful, so full of memories; whose people are so good to be -friends with, so easy-going and so frank. - -Some of the afore-mentioned people I have never had good fortune enough -to meet in the flesh, but that was not my fault. I hope they will -forgive my using their names without permission. Ah, would they only -retaliate in kind! That is, however, not likely, as I never was famous, -and a Common Private makes but little show. - -All these verses were written in France, and in sound of the guns, save -only two or three earlier pieces. This should be reason enough to excuse -any roughness in the technique. If more reason is required, people of -home, and most of all, people of Gloucester, may well be indulgent to -one who thought of them so often, and whose images of beauty in the mind -were always of Gloucester, county of Cotswold and Severn, and a plain -rich, blossomy, and sweet of airs--as the wise Romans knew, who made -their homes in exile by the brown river, watching the further bank for -signs of war. - - Ivor Gurney. - -_Spring_, 1917. - - - - -CONTENTS - - - PAGE - -TO CERTAIN COMRADES 13 - -THE FIRE KINDLED 15 - -TO THE POET BEFORE BATTLE 17 - -MAISEMORE 18 - -AFTERWARDS 20 - -CAROL 21 - -STRANGE SERVICE 23 - -SERENITY 25 - -THE SIGNALLER’S VISION 26 - -THE MOTHER 27 - -TO ENGLAND--A NOTE 28 - -BACH AND THE SENTRY 29 - -LETTERS 30 - -STRAFE 31 - -ACQUIESCENCE 32 - -THE STRONG THING 33 - -SCOTS 34 - -TO AN UNKNOWN LADY 35 - -SONG AND PAIN 36 - -PURPLE AND BLACK 37 - -WEST COUNTRY 38 - -FIRELIGHT 39 - -THE ESTAMINET 40 - -SONG 42 - -BALLAD OF THE THREE SPECTRES 43 - -COMMUNION 44 - -TIME AND THE SOLDIER 45 - -INFLUENCES 46 - -AFTER-GLOW 47 - -HAIL AND FAREWELL 48 - -PRAISE 49 - -WINTER BEAUTY 50 - -SONG OF PAIN AND BEAUTY 52 - -SPRING. ROUEN, MAY 1917 53 - -JUNE--TO--COME 57 - -“HARK, HARK, THE LARK” 59 - -SONG AT MORNING 60 - -TREES 61 - -REQUIEM 62 - -REQUIEM 63 - -REQUIEM 64 - -SONNETS 1917: - - 1. FOR ENGLAND 65 - - 2. PAIN 66 - - 3. SERVITUDE 67 - - 4. HOME-SICKNESS 68 - - 5. ENGLAND THE MOTHER 69 - - - - -SEVERN AND SOMME - - - - -TO CERTAIN COMRADES - -(E. S. AND J. H.) - - - LIVING we loved you, yet withheld our praises - Before your faces; - - And though we had your spirits high in honour, - After the English manner - - We said no word. Yet, as such comrades would, - You understood. - - Such friendship is not touched by Death’s disaster, - But stands the faster; - - And all the shocks and trials of time cannot - Shake it one jot. - - Beside the fire at night some far December, - We shall remember - - And tell men, unbegotten as yet, the story - Of your sad glory-- - - Of your plain strength, your truth of heart, your splendid - Coolness, all ended! - - All ended, ... yet the aching hearts of lovers - Joy overcovers, - - Glad in their sorrow; hoping that if they must - Come to the dust, - - An ending such as yours may be their portion, - And great good fortune-- - - That if we may not live to serve in peace - England, watching increase-- - - Then death with you, honoured, and swift, and high; - And so--not die. - - =IN TRENCHES, _July_ 1916=. - - - - -THE FIRE KINDLED - - GOD, that I might see - Framilode once again! - Redmarley, all renewed, - Clear shining after rain. - - And Cranham, Cranham trees, - And blaze of Autumn hues. - Portway under the moon, - Silvered with freezing dews. - - May Hill that Gloster dwellers - ’Gainst every sunset see; - And the wide Severn river - Homing again to the sea. - - The star of afterglow, - Venus, on western hills; - Dymock in spring: O spring - Of home! O daffodils! - - And Malvern’s matchless huge - Bastions of ancient fires-- - These will not let me rest, - So hot my heart desires.... - - Here we go sore of shoulder, - Sore of foot, by quiet streams; - But these are not my rivers.... - And these are useless dreams. - - - - -TO THE POET BEFORE BATTLE - - - NOW, youth, the hour of thy dread passion comes: - Thy lovely things must all be laid away; - And thou, as others, must face the riven day - Unstirred by rattle of the rolling drums, - Or bugles’ strident cry. When mere noise numbs - The sense of being, the fear-sick soul doth sway, - Remember thy great craft’s honour, that they may say - Nothing in shame of poets. Then the crumbs - Of praise the little versemen joyed to take - Shall be forgotten: then they must know we are, - For all our skill in words, equal in might - And strong of mettle as those we honoured; make - The name of poet terrible in just war, - And like a crown of honour upon the fight. - - - - -MAISEMORE - - - O WHEN we swung through Maisemore, - The Maisemore people cheered, - And women ran from farmyards, - And men from ricks, afeared - - To lose the sight of soldiers - Who would, ’fore Christmas Day, - Blow Kaiser William’s Army - Like mist of breath away! - - The war it was but young then! - And we were young, unknowing - The path we were to tread, - The way the path was going. - - And not a man of all of us, - Marching across the bridge, - Had thought how Home would linger - In our hearts, as Maisemore Ridge. - - When the darkness downward hovers - Making trees like German shadows, - How our souls fly homing, homing - Times and times to Maisemore meadows, - - By Aubers ridge that Maisemore men - Have died in vain to hold.... - The burning thought but once desires - Maisemore in morning gold! - - O when we marched through Maisemore - Past many a creaking cart, - We little thought we had in us - Love so hot at heart. - - - - -AFTERWARDS - - - THOSE dreadful evidences of Man’s ill-doing - The kindly Mother of all shall soon hide deep, - Covering with tender fingers her children asleep, - Till Time’s slow cycle turns them to renewing - In other forms their beauty--no grief, no rueing - Irrevocable woe. They’ll lie, they’ll steep - Their hearts in peace unfathomed, till they leap - Quick to the light of the sun, as flowers strewing, - Maybe, their own friends’ paths. And that’s not all. - When men who knew them walk old ways alone, - The paths they loved together, at even-fall, - The troubled heart shall know a presence near, - Friendly, familiar, and the old grief gone, - The new keen joy shall make all darkness clear. - - - - -CAROL - - - WINTER now has bared the trees, - Killed with tiny swords the jolly - Leafage that mid-summer sees, - But left the ivy and the holly. - Hold them high - And make delight - For Christë’s joy that’s born to-night. - - All green things but these have hid - Their heads, or died in melancholy, - Winter’s spite them all has rid - Save only ivy and brave holly. - Give them place - In all men’s sight - For Christë’s grace that’s born to-night. - - Baby eyes are pleased to see - Bright red berries and children jolly, - So shout and dance and sing with glee, - And honour ivy and prickly holly. - Honour courage - And make delight - For Christë’s sake that’s born to-night. - - Christus natus hodie! - Drink deep of joy on Christmas Day, - Join hands and sing a roundelay, - For this is Christ’s and children’s day, - Christus natus hodie! - Hodie! - - - - -STRANGE SERVICE - - - LITTLE did I dream, England, that you bore me - Under the Cotswold hills beside the water meadows, - To do you dreadful service, here, beyond your borders - And your enfolding seas. - - I was a dreamer ever, and bound to your dear service, - Meditating deep, I thought on your secret beauty, - As through a child’s face one may see the clear spirit - Miraculously shining. - - Your hills not only hills, but friends of mine and kindly, - Your tiny knolls and orchards hidden beside the river - Muddy and strongly-flowing, with shy and tiny streamlets - Safe in its bosom. - - Now these are memories only, and your skies and rushy sky-pools - Fragile mirrors easily broken by moving airs.... - In my deep heart for ever goes on your daily being, - And uses consecrate. - - Think on me too, O Mother, who wrest my soul to serve you - In strange and fearful ways beyond your encircling waters; - None but you can know my heart, its tears and sacrifice; - None, but you, repay. - - - - -SERENITY - - - NOR steel nor flame has any power on me, - Save that its malice work the Almighty Will, - Nor steel nor flame has any power on me; - Through tempests of hell-fire I must go free - And unafraid; so I remember still - Nor steel nor flame has any power on me, - Save that its malice work the Almighty Will. - - - - -THE SIGNALLER’S VISION - - - ONE rainy winter dusk - Mending a parted cable, - Sudden I saw so clear - Home and the tea-table. - - So clear it was, so sweet, - I did not start, but drew - The breath of deep content - Some minutes ere I knew - - My Mother’s face that’s soother - Than autumn half-lights kind, - My softly smiling sisters - Who keep me still in mind, - - Were but a dream, a vision-- - That faded. And I knew - The smell of trench, trench-feeling-- - And turned to work anew. - - - - -THE MOTHER - - - WE scar the earth with dreadful engin’ry; - She takes us to her bosom at the last; - Hiding our hate with love, who cannot see - Of any child the faults; and holds us fast. - We’ll wait in quiet till our passion’s past. - - - - -TO ENGLAND--A NOTE - - - I WATCHED the boys of England where they went - Through mud and water to do appointed things. - See one a stake, and one wire-netting brings, - And one comes slowly under a burden bent - Of ammunition. Though the strength be spent - They “carry on” under the shadowing wings - Of Death the ever-present. And hark, one sings - Although no joy from the grey skies be lent. - - Are these the heroes--these? have kept from you - The power of primal savagery so long? - Shall break the devil’s legions? These they are - Who do in silence what they might boast to do; - In the height of battle tell the world in song - How they do hate and fear the face of War. - - - - -BACH AND THE SENTRY - - - WATCHING the dark my spirit rose in flood - On that most dearest Prelude of my delight. - The low-lying mist lifted its hood, - The October stars showed nobly in clear night. - - When I return, and to real music-making, - And play that Prelude, how will it happen then? - Shall I feel as I felt, a sentry hardly waking, - With a dull sense of No Man’s Land again? - - - - -LETTERS - - - “MAIL’S UP!” The vast of night is over, - And love of friends fills all one’s mind. - (His wife, his sister, or his lover.) - Mail’s up, the vast of night is over, - The grey-faced heaven joy does cover - With love, and God once more seems kind. - “Mail’s up!” the vast of night is over, - And love of friends fills all one’s mind. - - - - -STRAFE - - - THE “crumps” are falling twenty to the minute. - We crouch, and wait the end of it--or us. - Just behind the trench, before, and in it, - The “crumps” are falling twenty to the minute; - (O Framilode! O Maisemore’s laughing linnet!) - Here comes a monster like a motor-bus. - The “crumps” are falling twenty to the minute: - We crouch and wait the end of it--or us. - - - - -ACQUIESCENCE - - - SINCE I can neither alter my destiny - By one hair’s breadth from its appointed course; - Since bribes nor prayers nor any earthly force - May from its pathway move a life not free-- - I must gather together the whole strength of me. - My senses make my willing servitors; - Cherish and feed the better, starve the worse; - Turn all my pride to proud humility. - Meeting the daily shocks and frozen, stony, - Cynical face of doubt with smiles and joy-- - As a battle with autumn winds delights a boy, - Before the smut of the world and the lust of money, - Power, and fame, can yet his youth destroy; - Ere he has scorned his Father’s patrimony. - - - - -THE STRONG THING - - - I HAVE seen Death and the faces of men in fear - Of Death, and shattered, terribly ruined flesh, - Appalled; but through the horror, coloured and clear - The love of my county, Gloster, rises afresh. - - And on the Day of Days, the Judgment Day, - The Word of Doom awaiting breathless and still, - I’ll marvel how sweet’s the air down Framilode way, - And take my sentence on sheer-down Crickley Hill. - - - - -SCOTS - - - THE boys who laughed and jested with me but yesterday, - So fit for kings to speak to, so blithe and proud and gay ... - Are now but thoughts of blind pain, and best hid away.... - (Over the top this morning at the dawn’s first grey.) - - O, if we catch the Kaiser his dirty hide to flay, - We’ll hang him on a tall tree his pride to allay. - That will not bring the boys again to mountain and brae.... - (Over the top this morning at the dawn’s first grey.) - - To think--earth’s best and dearest turned to red broken clay - By one devil’s second! What words can we say? - Or what gift has God their mothers’ anguish to repay?... - (Over the top this morning at the first flush of day.) - - - - -TO AN UNKNOWN LADY - - - YOU that were once so sweet, are sweeter now - That an even leaden greyness clouds my days; - A pain it is to think on your sweet ways, - Your careless-tender speaking, tender and low. - When the hills enclosed us, hid in happy valleys, - Greeting a thousand times the things most dear, - We wasted thoughts of love in laughter clear, - And told our passion out in mirthful sallies. - But in me now a burning impulse rages - To praise our love in words like flaming gold, - Molten and live for ever; not fit for cold - And coward like-to-passions Time assuages. - Nor do I fear you are lovely only in dreams, - Being as the sky reflected in clear streams. - - - - -SONG AND PAIN - - - OUT of my sorrow have I made these songs, - Out of my sorrow; - Though somewhat of the making’s eager pain - From Joy did borrow. - - Some day, I trust, God’s purpose of Pain for me - Shall be complete, - And then--to enter in the House of Joy.... - Prepare, my feet. - - - - -PURPLE AND BLACK - - - THE death of princes is - Honoured most greatly, - Proud kings put purple on - In manner stately. - - Though they have lived such life - As God offends, - Gone fearful down to death, - Sick, without friends. - - And in the temple dim, - Trumpets of gold - Proclaim their glory; so - Their story is told. - - In sentimental hymns - Weeping her dolour, - The mother of heroes wears - Vile black--Death’s colour, - - Who should walk proudly with - The noblest one - Of all that purple throng-- - “This was my son.” - - - - -WEST COUNTRY - - - SPRING comes soon to Maisemore - And spring comes sweet, - With bird-songs and blue skies, - On gay dancing feet; - But she is such a shy lady - I fear we’ll never meet. - - Yet some day round a corner - Where the hedge foams white, - I’ll find Spring sleeping - In the young-crescent night, - And seize her and make her - Yield all her delight. - - But yon’s a glad story - That’s yet to be told. - Here’s grey winter’s bareness - And no-shadowed cold. - O Spring, with your music, - Your blue, green, and gold, - Come shame his hard wisdom - With laughter and gold! - - - - -FIRELIGHT - - - SILENT, bathed in firelight, in dusky light and gloom - The boys squeeze together in the smoky dirty room, - Crowded round the fireplace, a thing of bricks and tin, - They watch the shifting embers till the good dreams enter in, - - That fill the low hovel with blossoms fresh with dew, - And blue sky and white clouds that sail the clear air through. - They talk of daffodillies and the bluebells’ skiey bed, - Till silence thrills and murmurs at the things they have said. - - And yet, they have no skill of words, whose eyes glow so deep, - They wait for night and silence and the strange power of sleep, - To lift them and drift them like sea-birds over the sea - Where some day I shall walk again, and they walk with me. - - - - -THE ESTAMINET - - - THE crowd of us were drinking - One night at Riez Bailleul, - The glasses were a-clinking, - The estaminet was full; - - And loud with song and story - And blue with tales and smoke,-- - We spoke no word of glory, - Nor mentioned “foreign yoke.” - - But yarns of girls in Blighty; - Vain, jolly, ugly, fair, - Standoffish, foolish, flighty-- - And O! that we were there! - - Where never thuds a “Minnie,” - But Minnie smiles at you - A-meeting in the spinney, - With kisses not a few. - - And of an inn that Johnson - Does keep; the “Rising Sun.” - His friends him call Jack Johnson, - He’s Gloster’s only one. - - And talk of poachers’ habits - (But girls ever and again) - Of killing weasels, rabbits, - Stoats, pheasants, never men, - - Although we knew to-morrow - Must take us to the line, - In beer hid thought and sorrow, - In ruddy and white wine. - - When all had finished drinking, - Though still was clear each head, - We said no word--went slinking - Straight homeward (?), into bed (?). - - O never lads were merrier - Nor straighter nor more fine, - Though we were only “Terrier” - And only, “Second Line.” - - O I may get to Blighty, - Or hell, without a sign - Of all the love that filled me, - Leave dumb the love that filled me, - The flood of love that filled me - For these dear comrades of mine. - - - - -SONG - - - ONLY the wanderer - Knows England’s graces, - Or can anew see clear - Familiar faces. - - And who loves joy as he - That dwells in shadows? - Do not forget me quite, - O Severn meadows. - - - - -BALLAD OF THE THREE SPECTRES - - - AS I went up by Ovillers - In mud and water cold to the knee, - There went three jeering, fleering spectres, - That walked abreast and talked of me. - - The first said, “Here’s a right brave soldier - That walks the dark unfearingly; - Soon he’ll come back on a fine stretcher, - And laughing for a nice Blighty.” - - The second, “Read his face, old comrade, - No kind of lucky chance I see; - One day he’ll freeze in mud to the marrow, - Then look his last on Picardie.” - - Though bitter the word of these first twain - Curses the third spat venomously; - “He’ll stay untouched till the war’s last dawning - Then live one hour of agony.” - - Liars the first two were. Behold me - At sloping arms by one--two--three; - Waiting the time I shall discover - Whether the third spake verity. - - - - -COMMUNION - - - BEAUTY lies so deep - On all the fields, - Nothing for the eyes - But blessing yields. - - Tall elms, greedy of light, - Stand tip-toe. See - The last light linger in - Their tracery. - - The guns are dumb, are still - All evil noises. - The singing heart in peace - Softly rejoices, - - Only unsatisfied - With Beauty’s hunger - And sacramental thirst-- - Nothing of anger. - - Mist wraiths haunt the path - As daylight lessens, - The stars grow clearer, and - My dead friend’s presence. - - - - -TIME AND THE SOLDIER - - - HOW slow you move, old Time; - Walk a bit faster! - Old fool, I’m not your slave.... - Beauty’s my master! - - You hold me for a space.... - What are you, Time? - A ghost, a thing of thought, - An easy rhyme. - - Some day I shall again, - For all your scheming, - See Severn valley clouds - Like banners streaming. - - And walk in Cranham lanes, - By Maisemore go.... - But, fool, decrepit Fool, - You are SO SLOW!!! - - - - -INFLUENCES - - - WHEN woods of home grow dark, - I grow dark too. - Images of strange power - Fill me and thrill me that hour, - Sombre of hue. - - The woods of Dunsinane - I walk, and know - What storms did shake Macbeth, - That brought on Duncan’s death, - And his own woe. - - Strange whispers chill the blood - Of evil breath; - Such rumours as did stir - Witch and foul sorcerer - On the lone heath. - - No power have these on me; - I know too well - Their weakness to condemn. - Spring will exorcise them - With one bluebell. - - - - -AFTER-GLOW - -[_TO_ F. W. HARVEY] - - - OUT of the smoke and dust of the little room - With tea-talk loud and laughter of happy boys, - I passed into the dusk. Suddenly the noise - Ceased with a shock, left me alone in the gloom, - To wonder at the miracle hanging high - Tangled in twigs, the silver crescent clear.-- - Time passed from mind. Time died; and then we were - Once more at home together, you and I. - - The elms with arms of love wrapped us in shade - Who watched the ecstatic West with one desire, - One soul uprapt; and still another fire - Consumed us, and our joy yet greater made: - That Bach should sing for us, mix us in one - The joy of firelight and the sunken sun. - - - - -HAIL AND FAREWELL - - - THE destined bullet wounded him, - They brought him down to die, - Far-off a bugle sounded him - “Retreat,” Good-bye. - - Strange, that from ways so hated, - And tyranny so hard - Should come this strangely fated - And farewell word. - - He thought, “Some Old Sweat might - Have thrilled at heart to hear, - Gone down into the night - Too proud to fear! - - But I--the fool at arms, - Musician, poet to boot, - Who hail release; what charms - In this salute?” - - He smiled--“The latest jest - That time on me shall play.” - And watched the dying west, - Went out with the day. - - - - -PRAISE - - - O friends of mine, if men mock at my name, - Say “Children loved him.” - Since by that word you will have far removed him - From any bitter shame. - - - - -WINTER BEAUTY - - - I CANNOT live with Beauty out of mind; - I seek her and desire her all the day, - Being the chiefest treasure man may find, - And word most sweet his eager lips can say. - She is as strong on me as though I wandered - In Severn meadows some blue riotous day. - - But since the trees have long since lost their green, - And I, an exile, can but dream of things - Grown magic in the mind, I watch the sheen - Of frost and hear the song Orion sings, - And hear the star-born passion of Beethoven; - Man’s consolations sung on the quivering strings. - - Beauty of song remembered, sunset glories, - Mix in my mind, till I not care nor know - Whether the stars do move me, golden stories, - Or ruddy Cotswold in the sunset glow. - I am uprapt, and not my own, immortal, ... - In winds of Beauty swinging to and fro. - - Beauty immortal, not to be hid, desire - Of all men, each in his fashion, give me the strong - Thirst past satisfaction for thee, and fire - Not to be quenched.... O lift me, bear me along, - Touch me, make me worthy that men may seek me - For Beauty, Mistress Immortal, Healer of Wrong. - - - - -SONG OF PAIN AND BEAUTY - -[_To_ M. M. S.] - - - O MAY these days of pain, - These wasted-seeming days, - Somewhere reflower again - With scent and savour of praise. - Draw out of memory all bitterness - Of night with Thy sun’s rays. - - And strengthen Thou in me - The love of men here found, - And eager charity, - That, out of difficult ground, - Spring like flowers in barren deserts, or - Like light, or a lovely sound. - - A simpler heart than mine - Might have seen beauty clear - Where I could see no sign - Of Thee, but only fear. - Strengthen me, make me to see Thy beauty always - In every happening here. - - IN TRENCHES, _March 1917_. - - - - -SPRING. ROUEN, MAY 1917 - - - I AM dumb, I am dumb! - And here’s a Norman orchard and here’s Spring - Goading the sullen words that will not come. - Romance, beating his distant magical drum, - Calls to a soldier bearing alien arms, - “Throw off your yoke and hear my darlings sing, - Blackbirds” (by red-roofed farms) - “More drunk than any poet with May’s delight, - Green alive to the eye, and pink and white.” - - Joy’s there, but not for me; - And song, but shall I sing - That live as in a dream of some bad night, - Whose memories are of such ecstasy - And height of passionate joy, that pain alone - Is born of beauty in cloud and flower and tree; - Yes, and the great Cathedral’s towering stone. - - To me these are but shadows - Of orchards and old meadows - Trodden before the dawn, - Trodden after the dusk.... - All loveliness of France is as a husk, - The inner living spirit of beauty gone, - To that familiar beauty now withdrawn - From exiles hungering ever for the sight - Of her day-face; - England’s; - Or in some orchard space - Breathless to drink peace from her calm night. - - How shall I sing, since she sings not to me - Songs any more? - High rule she holds for ever on the sea - That’s hers, but dreams too might guard the shore - Of France, that’s French and set apart for ever. - A Spirit of Love our link of song does sever. - Had it been hate - (The weakest of all sworn enemies of Love) - We should have broken through or passed above - Its foolish barriers; - Here we must bow as to established Fate, - And reverently; for, comrades and high peers, - Sisters in blood, - Our mothers brook no rival in their state - Of motherhood. - - But not for ever shall our travail last, - And not for ever we - Be held by iron Duty over sea. - The image of evil shall be overcast, - And all his willing slaves and priests of evil - Scattered like dust, shall lie upon the plain; - That image, ground to dust utterly level - With unregarded weeds and all as vain. - The oppressed shall lift their hearts up once again, - And we return.... - Not to scarred lands and homes laid in the dust, - Not with hard hearts to sights that sear and burn, - But with assured longing and certain trust, - To England’s royal grace and dignity, - To England’s changing skies, rich greenery, - High strength controlled, queenly serenity, - Inviolate kept by her confederate sea - And hearts resolved to every sacrifice. - We shall come home, - We shall come home again, - Living and dead, one huge victorious host-- - The dead that would not leave their comrades till - The last steep were topped of the difficult hill, - The last farthing paid of the Great Cost, - The last thrill suffered of the Great Pain. - Living and dead, we shall come home at last - To her sweet breast, - England’s; by one touch be paid in full - For all things grey and long and terrible - Of that dread night which seemed eternity. - - O Mother, shall thy kisses not restore - Body and life-sick soul? Yes, and set free - Songs and great floods of lovelier melody - Than thou didst give - When we those days of half-awake did live. - And joy must surely flower again more fair - To us, who dwelt in shadows and foul air. - We’ll breathe and drink in song. - - Spring shall blot out all traces of old care; - Her clouds of green and waves of gold among - We shall grow free of heart, and great, and young-- - Be made anew in that Great Resurrection, - Perfect as is the violet’s perfection. - Perfect as she - Who sanctifies our memory with sorrow, - Hugs, as a mother hugs, the thoughts that harrow, - Watching for dawn, hungering for the morrow - Lone oversea.... - - I am dumb now, dumb, - But in that time what music shall not come? - Mother of Beauty, Mistress of the Sea. - - - - -JUNE--TO--COME - - - WHEN the sun’s fire and gold - Sets the bee humming, - I will not write to tell - Him that I’m coming, - - But ride out unawares - On that old road, - Of Minsterworth, of Peace, - Of Framilode, - - And walk, not looked for, in - That cool, dark passage. - Never a single word; - Myself my message. - - And then; well ... O we’ll drift - And stand and gaze, - And wonder how we could - In those Bad Days - - Live without Minsterworth; - Or western air - Fanning the hot cheek, - Stirring the hair; - In land where hate of men - God’s love did cover; - This land.... And here’s my dream - Irrevocably over. - - - - -“HARK, HARK, THE LARK” - - - HARK, hark, the lark to heaven’s gate uprisen, - Pours out his joy ... - I think of you, shut in some distant prison, - O Boy, poor Boy; - - Your heart grown sick with hope deferred and shadows - Of prison ways; - Not daring to snatch a thought of Severn meadows, - Or old blue-days. - - - - -SONG AT MORNING - - - PRAISE for the day’s magnificent uprising! - Praise for the cool - Air and the blue new-old ever-surprising - Face of the sky, and mirrored blue of the pool. - Only the fool, bat-witted, owl-eyed fool - Can hold a deaf ear while life begins - The actual opening of a myriad stories.... - Blindness, ingratitude, the foolishest sins! - Now if this day blot out my chief desires, - And leave me maimed and blind and full of hot - Surges of insurrection, evil fires, - Memories of joys that seem better forgot; - Quiet me then. - Thy Will is binding on the nearest flower - As on the farthest star; and what shall put me - Out of Thy power, or from Thy guidance far, - Though I in hell of my self-will would shut me? - But if Thy Will be joy for me to-day, - Give me clear eyes, a heart open to feel - Thy influence, Thy kindness: O unseal - The shut, the hidden places in me, reveal - Those things most precious secretly hidden away - From all save children and the simply wise. - Give me clear eyes! - And strength to know, whatever may befall, - The eternal presence of great mysteries, - Glorifying Thee for all. - - - - -TREES - - (“You cannot think how ghastly these battle-fields look under a - grey sky. Torn trees are the most terrible things I have ever seen. - Absolute blight and curse is on the face of everything.”) - - - THE dead land oppressed me; - I turned my thoughts away, - And went where hill and meadow - Are shadowless and gay. - - Where Coopers stands by Cranham, - Where the hill-gashes white - Show golden in the sunshine, - Our sunshine--God’s delight. - - Beauty my feet stayed at last - Where green was most cool, - Trees worthy of all worship - I worshipped ... then, O fool, - - Let my thoughts slide unwitting - To other, dreadful trees, ... - And found me standing, staring - Sick of heart--at these! - - - - -REQUIEM - - - POUR out your light, O stars, and do not hold - Your loveliest shining from earth’s outworn shell-- - Pure and cold your radiance, pure and cold - My dead friend’s face as well. - - - - -REQUIEM - - - NOR grief nor tears should wrong the silent dead - Save England’s, for her children fallen so far - From her eager care; though by God’s justice led - And fallen in such a war. - - - - -REQUIEM - - - POUR out your bounty, moon of radiant shining - On all this shattered flesh, these quiet forms; - For these were slain, so strangely still reclining, - In the noblest cause was ever waged with arms. - - - - -SONNETS 1917 - -[_TO_ THE MEMORY OF RUPERT BROOKE] - - - - -1. FOR ENGLAND - - THOUGH heaven be packed with joy-bewildering - Pleasures of soul and heart and mind, yet who - Would willingly let slip, freely let go - Earth’s mortal loveliness; go wandering - Where never the late bird is heard to sing, - Nor full-sailed cloud-galleons wander slow; - No pathways in the woods; no afterglow, - When the air’s fire and magic with sense of spring? - - So the dark horror clouds us, and the dread - Of the unknown.... But if it must be, then - What better passing than to go out like men - For England, giving all in one white glow? - Whose bodies shall lie in earth as on a bed, - And as the Will directs our spirits may go - - - - -2. PAIN - - PAIN, pain continual; pain unending; - Hard even to the roughest, but to those - Hungry for beauty.... Not the wisest knows, - Nor most pitiful-hearted, what the wending - Of one hour’s way meant. Grey monotony lending - Weight to the grey skies, grey mud where goes - An army of grey bedrenched scarecrows in rows - Careless at last of cruellest Fate-sending. - Seeing the pitiful eyes of men foredone, - Or horses shot, too tired merely to stir, - Dying in shell-holes both, slain by the mud. - Men broken, shrieking even to hear a gun.-- - Till pain grinds down, or lethargy numbs her, - The amazed heart cries angrily out on God. - - - - -3. SERVITUDE - - IF it were not for England, who would bear - This heavy servitude one moment more? - To keep a brothel, sweep and wash the floor - Of filthiest hovels were noble to compare - With this brass-cleaning life. Now here, now there - Harried in foolishness, scanned curiously o’er - By fools made brazen by conceit, and store - Of antique witticisms thin and bare. - - Only the love of comrades sweetens all, - Whose laughing spirit will not be outdone. - As night-watching men wait for the sun - To hearten them, so wait I on such boys - As neither brass nor Hell-fire may appal, - Nor guns, nor sergeant-major’s bluster and noise. - - - - -4. HOME-SICKNESS - - WHEN we go wandering the wide air’s blue spaces, - Bare, unhappy, exiled souls of men; - How will our thoughts over and over again - Return to Earth’s familiar lovely places, - Where light with shadow ever interlaces-- - No blanks of blue, nor ways beyond man’s ken-- - Where birds are, and flowers, as violet, and wren, - Blackbird, bluebell, hedge-sparrow, tiny daisies. - - O tiny things, but very stuff of soul - To us ... so frail.... Remember what we are; - Set us not on some strange outlandish star, - But one caring for Love. Give us a Home. - There we may wait while the long ages roll - Content, unfrightened by vast Time-to-come. - - - - -5. ENGLAND THE MOTHER - - WE have done our utmost, England, terrible - And dear taskmistress, darling Mother and stern. - The unnoticed nations praise us, but we turn - Firstly, only to thee--“Have we done well? - Say, are you pleased?”--and watch your eyes that tell - To us all secrets, eyes sea-deep that burn - With love so long denied; with tears discern - The scars and haggard look of all that hell. - - Thy love, thy love shall cherish, make us whole, - Whereto the power of Death’s destruction is weak. - Death impotent, by boys bemocked at, who - Will leave unblotted in the soldier-soul - Gold of the daffodil, the sunset streak, - The innocence and joy of England’s blue. - - THE END - - - PRINTED BY - HAZELL, WATSON AND VINEY, LD., - LONDON AND AYLESBURY. - - * * * * * - - _From Sidgwick & Jackson’s List of Poetry_ - - - =ASQUITH, HERBERT. The Volunteer and other Poems.= _Second Edition, - with new Poems added._ =2s.= net. - - =BROOKE, RUPERT. Poems.= (_First issued 1911._) _Nineteenth - Impression._ =2s. 6d.= net. - - ---- =1914 and other Poems.= With a Portrait. _Twenty-first - Impression._ =2s. 6d.= net. - - ---- =Selected Poems.= With a new Portrait. _Second Impression._ - Cloth, =3s. 6d.= net; lambskin, =5s.= net. - - =DRINKWATER, JOHN. Swords and Ploughshares.= _Second Impression._ =2s. - 6d.= net. - - ---- =Olton Pools.= _Second Impression._ =2s. 6d.= net. - - ---- =Pawns; Three Poetic Plays. 2s. 6d.= net. - - ---- =Poems, 1908-1914. 5s.= net. - - =ENSOR, R. C. K. Odes and other Poems. 2s.= net. - - =GARSTIN, CROSBIE. Vagabond Verses.= Cloth, =2s. 6d.= net. - - =GRAVES, C. L. War’s Surprises, and other Verses.= Cloth, =3s. 6d.= - net. - - [_Second Impression._ - - =HARVEY, F. W. A Gloucestershire Lad.= _Fourth Impression._ Cloth, - =2s.= net; paper =1s. 6d.= net. - - ---- =Gloucestershire Friends.= Poems from a German Prison Camp. =2s. - 6d.= net. - - =JENKINS, ELINOR. Poems. 2s. 6d.= net. - - =MACAULAY, ROSE. The Two Blind Countries.= Cloth, =2s. 6d.= net. - - =NIVEN, FREDERICK. Maple-leaf Songs.= Wrappers. =1s.= net. - - =OWEN, EVERARD. Three Hills and other Poems.= _Second Impression._ - Wrappers, =6d.= net. - - =SHAKESPEARE, W. G. Ypres and other Poems.= Boards, =2s.= net. - - =SHANKS, EDWARD. Poems. 2s. 6d.= net. - - “=SOME VERSE.=” =By F. S.= _Third Impression._ Boards, =2s.= net. - - =SONGS OF THE “BLUE DRAGON.”= Cloth, =1s. 6d.= net; wrappers, =1s.= net. - - =TURNER, W. J. The Hunter and other Poems.= Cloth, =2s. 6d.= net. - - =TYNAN, KATHARINE. 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